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WHEN  WINTER  COMES 
TO  MAIN  STREET 


Qi<'iV^F&T6'JY«-WlY 


GRANT  OVERTON 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


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WHEN  WINTER  COMES 
TO  MAIN  STREET 

GRANT  OVERTON 


WHEN  WINTER  COMES 
TO  MAIN  STREET 


BY 


GRANT  OVERTON 

AUTHOR    OF    "the    WOMEN    WHO    MAKE    OUR    NOVELS" 


NEW  XSJr  YORK 
GEORGE  H.  DORAN  COMPANY 


PRINTED   IN   THE   UNITED  STATES  OF   AMERICA 


COPYRIGHT,    1922, 
BY  GEORGE   H.   DORAN   COMPANY 


WHEN   WINTER  COMES  TO   MAIN   STREET.  I 


Press  of 
J.  J.  Little  &  Ives  Company- 
New  York,  U.  S.  A. 


FOR 

GEORGE  H.  DORAN 

WHO    HAD   THE   IDEA 


PREFACE 

I  have  borrowed  my  title  from  two  remarkable 
novels. 

If  Winter  Comes^  by  A.  S.  M.  Hutchinson,  was 
published  in  the  autumn  of  1921  by  Messrs. 
Little,  Brown  &  Company  of  Boston. 

Main  Street^  by  Sinclair  Lewis,  was  published 
in  the  autumn  of  1920  by  Messrs.  Harcourt, 
Brace  &  Company  of  New  York. 

I  have  not  before  me  the  precise  figures  of  the 
amazing  sales  of  these  two  books — each  passed 
350,000 — but  I  make  my  bow  to  their  authors 
and  to  their  publishers  and  to  the  American  pub- 
lic. I  bow  to  the  authors  for  the  quality  of  their 
work  and  to  the  publishers  and  the  public  for 
their  recognition  of  that  quality. 

These  two  substantial  successes  confirm  my 
belief  that  the  American  public  in  hundreds  of 
thousands  relishes  good  reading.  Without  that 
belief,  this  book  would  not  have  been  prepared; 
but  I  have  prepared  it  with  some  confidence  that 
those  who  relish  good  reading  will  be  interested 
in  the  chapters  that  follow. 

As  a  former  book  reviewer  and  literary  editor, 
as  an  author  and,  now,  as  one  vitally  concerned 

[vii] 


PREFACE 

in  book  publishing,  my  interest  in  books  has  been 
fundamentally  unchanging — a  wish  to  see  more 
books  read  and  better  books  to  read. 

From  one  standpoint,  When  Winter  Comes  to 
Main  Street  is  frankly  an  advertisement;  it  deals 
with  Doran  books  and  authors.  This  is  a  fact 
of  some  relevance,  however,  if,  as  I  believe,  the 
reader  shall  find  well-spent  the  time  given  to 
these  pages. 

Grant  Overton. 
ig  July  ig22. 


[viii] 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAGB 

I       THE  COURAGE  OF  HUGH   WALPOLE  15 

n       HALF-SMILES    AND    GESTURES  33 

HI       STEWART    EDWARD    WHITE    AND   ADVENTURE  55 

IV       WHERE    THE    PLOT    THICKENS  68 

V      REBECCA   west:   AN    ARTIST  7^ 

VI       SHAMELESS    FUN  88 

VII       THE   VITALITY  OF   MARY   ROBERTS   RINEHART  102 

VIII       THEY    HAVE    ONLY    THEMSELVES    TO    BLAME  1 18 

IX      AUDACIOUS    MR.    BENNETT  133 

X       A   CHAPTER   FOR   CHILDREN  15^ 

XI       COBb's   FOURTH  DIMENSION  l66 

XII      PLACES    TO   GO  187 

XIII  ALIAS   RICHARD  DEHAN  I96 

XIV  WITH    FULL    DIRECTIONS  212 

XV       FRANK  SWINNERTON  :  ANALYST  OF  LOVERS  225 

XVI      AN    ARMFUL    OF    NOVELS,    WITH    NOTES    ON 

THE     NOVELISTS  244 

XVII      THE    HETEROGENEOUS    MAGIC   OF    MAUGHAM  27O 

[ix] 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

XVIII       BOOKS   WE   LIVE   BY  293 

XIX      ROBERT     W.     CHAMBERS     AND     THE     WHOLE 

TRUTH  308 

XX       UNIQUITIES  321 

XXI       THE      CONFESSIONS      OF     A      WELL-MEANING 

YOUNG    MAN,    STEPHEN    MCKENNA  334 

XXII       POETS    AND    PLAYWRIGHTS  347 

XXIII       THE  BOOKMAN  FOUNDATION  AND  THE  BOOK- 
MAN 366 

EPILOGUE  372 

INDEX  373 


[x] 


PORTRAITS 


PAGE 


HUGH    WALPOLE  ^7 

STEWART    EDWARD    WHITE  57 

REBECCA    WEST  79 

MARY    ROBERTS    RINEHART  103 

ARNOLD    BENNETT  ^35 

IRVIN    S.    COBB  1"7 

FRANK    SWINNERTON  ^2,7 

W.    SOMERSET    MAUGHAM  27^ 

STEPHEN    MCKENNA  335 


WHEN  WINTER  COMES 
TO  MAIN  STREET 


WHEN  WINTER  COMES 
TO  MAIN   STREET 

Chapter  I 
THE  COURAGE  OF  HUGH  WALPOLE 


SAYS  his  American  contemporary,  Joseph 
Hergesheimer,  in  an  appreciation  of  Hugh 
Walpole:  "Mr.  Walpole's  courage  in  the  face  of 
the  widest  scepticism  is  nowhere  more  daring  than 
in  The  Golden  Scarecrow."  Mr.  Walpole's  cour- 
age, I  shall  always  hold,  is  nowhere  more  appar- 
ent than  in  the  choice  of  his  birthplace.  He  was 
born  in  the  Antipodes.  Yes  I  In  that  magical, 
unpronounceable  realm  one  reads  about  and  in- 
tends to  look  up  in  the  dictionary.  .  .  .  The  pre- 
cise Antipodean  spot  was  Auckland,  New  Zealand, 
and  the  year  was  1884. 

The  Right  Reverend  George  Henry  Somerset 
Walpole,  D.D.,  Bishop  of  Edinburgh  since  1910, 
had  been  sent  in  1882  to  Auckland  as  Incumbent 
of  St.  Mary's  Pro-Cathedral,  and  the  same  ecclesi- 

[15] 


WHEN  WINTER  COMES  TO  MAIN  STREET 

astical  fates  which  took  charge  of  Hugh  Seymour 
Walpole's  birthplace  provided  that,  at  the  age  of 
five,  the  immature  novelist  should  be  transferred 
to  New  York.  Dr.  Walpole  spent  the  next  seven 
years  in  imparting  to  students  of  the  General  The- 
ological Seminary,  New  York,  their  knowledge  of 
Dogmatic  Theology.  Hugh  Seymour  Walpole 
spent  the  seven  years  in  attaining  the  age  of 
twelve. 

Then,  in  1896,  the  family  returned  to  England. 
Perhaps  a  tendency  to  travel  had  by  this  time 
become  implanted  in  Hugh,  for  now,  in  his  late 
thirties,  he  is  one  of  the  most  peripatetic  of 
writers.  He  is  here,  he  is  there.  You  write  to 
him  in  London  and  receive  a  reply  from  Cornwall 
or  the  Continent.  And,  regularly,  he  comes  over 
to  America.  Of  all  the  English  novelists  who 
have  visited  this  country  he  is  easily  the  most  pop- 
ular personally  on  this  side.  His  visit  this  autumn 
(1922)  will  undoubtedly  multiply  earlier  wel- 
comes. 

Interest  in  Walpole  the  man  and  Walpole  the 
novelist  shows  an  increasing  tendency  to  become 
identical.  It  is  all  very  well  to  say  that  the  man 
is  one  thing,  his  books  are  quite  another ;  but  sup- 
pose the  man  cannot  be  separated  from  his  books'? 
The  Walpole  that  loved  Cornwall  as  a  lad  can't 
be  dissevered  from  the  "Hugh  Seymour"  of 
The  Golden  Scarecrow;  without  his  Red  Cross 
service  in  Russia  during  the  Great  War,  Walpole 
could  not  have  written  The  Dark  Forest;  and  I 

[16] 


HUGH  WALPOLE 


[>7] 


THE  COURAGE  OF  HUGH  WALPOLE 

think  the  new  novel  he  offers  us  this  autumn  must 
owe  a  good  deal  to  direct  reminiscence  of  such  a 
cathedral  town  as  Durham,  to  which  the  family 
returned  when  Hugh  was  twelve. 

The  Cathedral,  as  the  new  book  is  called,  rests 
the  whole  of  its  effect  upon  just  such  an  edifice 
as  young  Hugh  was  familiar  with.  The  Cathedral 
of  the  story  stands  in  Polchester,  in  the  west  of 
England,  in  the  county  of  Glebeshire — that  myth- 
ical yet  actual  county  of  Wal pole's  other  novels. 
Like  such  tales  as  The  Green  Mirror  and  The 
Duchess  of  Wrexe,  the  aim  is  threefold — to  give 
a  history  of  a  certain  group  of  people  and,  at  the 
same  time,  (2)  to  be  a  comment  on  English  life, 
and,  beyond  that,  (3)  to  offer  a  philosophy  of  life 
itself. 

The  innermost  of  the  three  circles  of  interest 
created  in  this  powerful  novel — like  concentric 
rings  formed  by  dropping  stones  in  water — con- 
cerns the  life  of  Archdeacon  Brandon.  When  the 
story  opens  he  is  ruling  Polchester,  all  its  life, 
religious  and  civic  and  social,  with  an  iron  rod. 
A  good  man,  kindly  and  virtuous  and  simple, 
power  has  been  too  much  for  him.  In  the  first 
chapter  a  parallel  is  made  between  Brandon  and 
a  great  mediaeval  ecclesiastic  of  the  Cathedral,  the 
Black  Bishop,  who  came  to  think  of  himself  as 
God  and  who  was  killed  by  his  enemies.  All 
through  the  book  this  parallel  is  followed. 

A  certain  Canon  Bonder  arrives  to  take  up  a 
post  in  the  Cathedral.     The  main  thread  of  the 

[19] 


WHEN  WINTER  COMES  TO  MAIN  STREET 

novel  now  emerges  as  the  history  of  the  rivalry 
of  these  two  men,  one  simple  and  elemental,  the 
other  calculating,  selfish  and  sure.  Ronder  sees 
at  once  that  Brandon  is  in  his  way  and  at  once 
begins  his  work  to  overthrow  the  Archdeacon,  not 
because  he  dislikes  him  at  all  (he  likes  him),  but 
because  he  wants  his  place ;  too,  because  Brandon 
represents  the  Victorian  church,  while  Ronder  is 
on  the  side  of  the  modernists, 

Brandon  is  threatened  through  his  son  Stephen 
and  through  his  wife.  His  source  of  strength, — a 
source  of  which  he  is  unaware — lies  in  his  daugh- 
ter, Joan,  a  charming  girl  just  growing  up.  The 
first  part  of  the  novel  ends  with  everything  that  is 
to  follow  implicit  in  what  has  been  told;  the  story 
centres  in  Brandon  but  more  sharply  in  the  Cathe- 
dral, which  is  depicted  as  a  living  organism  with 
all  its  great  history  behind  it  working  quickly, 
ceaselessly,  for  its  own  purposes.  Every  part  of 
the  Cathedral  life  is  brought  in  to  effect  this,  the 
Bishop,  the  Dean,  the  Canons — down  to  the  \^er- 
ger's  smallest  child.  All  the  town  life  also  is 
brought  in,  from  the  Cathedral  on  the  hill  to  the 
mysterious  little  riverside  inn.  Behind  the  town 
is  seen  the  Glebeshire  country,  behind  that,  Eng- 
land; behind  England,  the  world,  all  moving 
toward  set  purposes. 

The  four  parts  of  the  novel  markedly  resemble, 
in  structure,  acts  of  a  play;  in  particular,  the  strik- 
ing third  part,  entirely  concerned  with  the  events 
of  a  week  and  full  of  flashing  pictures,  such  as  the 

[20] 


THE  COURAGE  OF  HUGH  WALPOLE 

scene  of  the  Town  Ball.  But  the  culmination  of 
this  part,  indeed,  the  climax  of  the  whole  book, 
comes  in  the  scene  of  the  Fair,  with  its  atmosphere 
of  carnival,  its  delirium  of  outdoor  mood,  and  its 
tremendous  encounter  between  Brandon  and  his 
wife.  The  novel  closes  upon  a  moment  both  fugi- 
tive and  eternal — Brandon  watching  across  the 
fields  the  Cathedral,  lovely  and  powerful,  in  the 
evening  distance.  The  Cathedral,  lovely  and 
powerful,  forever  victorious,  served  by  the  gener- 
ations of  men.  .  .  . 


11 

Courage,  for  Hugh,  must  have  made  its  demand 
to  be  exercised  early.  We  have  the  "Hugh  Sey- 
mour" of  The  Golden  Scarecrow  who  "was  sent 
from  Ceylon,  where  his  parents  lived,  to  be  edu- 
cated in  England.  His  relations  having  for  the 
most  part  settled  in  foreign  countries,  he  spent 
his  holidays  as  a  minute  and  pale-faced  'paying 
guest'  in  various  houses  where  other  children  were 
of  more  importance  than  he,  or  where  children 
as  a  race  were  of  no  importance  at  all."  It  would 
be  a  mistake  to  confer  on  such  a  fictional  passage 
a  strict  autobiographical  importance;  but  I  think 
it  significant  that  the  novel  with  which  Walpole 
first  won  an  American  following.  Fortitude^ 
should  derive  from  a  theme  as  simple  and  as 
strong  as  that  of  a  classic  symphony — from  those 

[21] 


WHEN  WINTER  COMES  TO  MAIN  STREET 

words  with  which  it  opens:  " 'T  isn't  life  that 
matters  I  'T  is  the  courage  you  bring  to  it." 
From  that  moment  on,  the  novel  follows  the  strug- 
gle of  Peter  Westcott,  in  boyhood  and  young  man- 
hood, with  antagonists,  inner  and  outer.  At  the 
end  we  have  him  partly  defeated,  wholly  trium- 
phant, still  fighting,  still  pledged  to  fight. 

Not  to  confuse  fiction  with  fact :  Hugh  Wal- 
pole  was  educated  at  Kings  School,  Canterbury, 
and  at  Emmanuel  College,  Cambridge.  When  he 
left  the  university  he  drifted  into  newspaper  work 
in  London.  He  also  had  a  brief  experience  as 
master  in  a  boys'  school  (the  experiential-imagi- 
native source  of  The  Gods  and  Mr.  Perrin,  that 
superb  novel  of  underpaid  teachers  in  a  second- 
rate  boarding  school).  The  war  brought  Red 
Cross  work  in  Russia  and  also  a  mission  to  Petro- 
grad  to  promote  pro-Ally  sentiment.  For  these 
services  Walpole  was  decorated  with  the  Georgian 
Medal. 

What  is  Hugh  Walpole  like  personally'?  Ar- 
nold Bennett,  in  an  article  which  appeared  in  the 
Book  News  Monthly  and  which  was  reprinted  in 
a  booklet,  says:  "About  the  time  of  the  publica- 
tion of  The  Gods  and  Mr.  Perrin,  I  made  the 
acquaintance  of  Mr.  Walpole  and  found  a  man 
of  youthful  appearance,  rather  dark,  with  a  spa- 
cious forehead,  a  very  highly  sensitised  nervous 
organisation,  and  that  reassuring  matter-of-fact- 
ness  of  demeanour  which  one  usually  does  find  in 
an  expert.    He  was  then  busy  at  his  task  of  seeing 

[22] 


THE  COURAGE  OF  HUGH  WALPOLE 

life  in  London.  He  seems  to  give  about  one-third 
of  the  year  to  the  tasting  of  all  the  heterogeneous 
sensations  which  London  can  provide  for  the 
connoisseur  and  two-thirds  to  the  exercise  of  his 
vocation  in  seme  withdrawn  spot  in  Cornwall  that 
nobody  save  a  postman  or  so,  and  Mr.  Walpole, 
has  ever  beheld.  During  one  month  it  is  impos- 
sible to  'go  out'  in  London  without  meeting  Mr. 
Walpole — and  then  for  a  long  period  he  is  a  mere 
legend  of  dinner  tables.  He  returns  to  the  dinner 
tables  with  a  novel  complete." 

In  the  same  magazine,  in  an  article  reprinted 
in  the  same  booklet,  Mrs.  Belloc  Lowndes,  that 
excellent  weaver  of  mystery  stories  and  sister  of 
Hilaire  Belloc,  said:  "Before  all  things  Hugh 
Walpole  is  an  optimist,  with  a  great  love  for  and 
a  great  belief  in  human  nature.  His  outlook  is 
essentially  sane,  essentially  normal.  He  has  had 
his  reverses  and  difficulties,  living  in  lodgings  in 
remote  Chelsea,  depending  entirely  upon  his  own 
efforts.  Tall  and  strongly  built,  clean-shaven, 
with  a  wide,  high  forehead  and  kindly  sympa- 
thetic expression,  the  author  of  Fortitude  has  a 
refreshing  boyishness  and  zest  for  enjoyment 
which  are  pleasant  to  his  close  friends.  London, 
the  home  of  his  adoption,  Cornwall,  the  home  of 
his  youth,  have  each  an  equal  spell  for  him  and 
he  divides  his  year  roughly  into  two  parts :  the  tiny 
fishing  town  of  Polperro,  Cornwall,  and  the  pleas- 
ure of  friendships  in  London.  'What  a  wonder- 
ful day  I'  he  was  heard  to  say,  his  voice  sounding 

[23] 


WHEN  WINTER  COMES  TO  MAIN  STREET 

muffled  through  the  thickest  variety  of  a  pea-soup 
fog.  'It  wouldn't  really  be  London  without  an 
occasional  day  like  this!  I'm  off  to  tramp  the 
city.'  It  is  one  of  Hugh  Walpole's  superstitions 
that  he  should  always  begin  his  novels  on  Christ- 
mas Eve.  He  has  always  done  so,  and  he  believes 
it  brings  him  luck.  Often  it  means  the  exercise  of 
no  small  measure  of  self-control,  for  the  story  has 
matured  in  his  mind  and  he  is  aching  to  commence 
it.  But  he  vigorously  adheres  to  his  custom,  and 
by  the  time  he  begins  to  write  his  book  lies  before 
him  like  a  map.  'I  could  tell  it  you  now,  prac- 
tically in  the  very  words  in  which  I  shall  write  it,' 
he  has  said.  Nevertheless,  he  takes  infinite  trouble 
with  the  work  as  it  progresses.  A  great  reader, 
Hugh  Walpole  reads  with  method.  Tracts  of  his- 
tory, periods  of  fiction  and  poetry,  are  studied 
seriously;  and  he  has  a  really  exhaustive  heritage 
of  modern  poetry  and  fiction." 

Perhaps  since  Mrs.  Lowndes  wrote  those  words, 
Mr.  Walpole  has  departed  from  his  Christmas 
Eve  custom.  At  any  rate,  I  notice  on  the  last 
page  in  his  very  long  novel  The  Captives  (the 
work  by  which,  I  think,  he  sets  most  store  of  all 
his  books  so  far  published)  the  dates: 

POLPERRO,  JAN.  I916, 
POLPERRO,  MAY  I92O. 


[24] 


THE  COURAGE  OF  HUGH  WALPOLE 

•  •  • 

111 

The  demand  for  the  exercise  of  that  courage  of 
which  we  have  spoken  can  be  seen  from  these  fur- 
ther details,  suppHed  by  Arnold  Bennett : 

"At  the  age  of  twenty,  as  an  undergraduate  of 
Cambridge,  Walpole  wrote  two  novels.  One  of 
these,  a  very  long  book,  the  author  had  the  im- 
prudence to  destroy.  The  other  was  The  Wooden 
Horse,  his  first  printed  novel.  It  is  not  to  be 
presumed  that  The  Wooden  Horse  was  pub- 
lished at  once.  For  years  it  waited  in  manu- 
script until  Walpole  had  become  a  master 
in  a  certain  provincial  school  in  England. 
There  he  showed  the  novel  to  a  fellow-master, 
who,  having  kept  the  novel  for  a  period,  spoke 
thus :  'I  have  tried  to  read  your  novel,  Walpole, 
but  I  can't.  Whatever  else  you  may  be  fitted  for, 
you  aren't  fitted  to  be  a  novelist.'  Mr.  Walpole 
was  grieved.  Perhaps  he  was  unaware,  then,  that 
a  similar  experience  had  happened  to  Joseph  Con- 
rad. I  am  unable  to  judge  the  schoolmaster's  fit- 
ness to  be  a  critic,  because  I  have  not  read  The 
Wooden  Horse.  Walpole  once  promised  to  send 
me  a  copy  so  that  I  might  come  to  some  conclu- 
sion as  to  the  schoolmaster,  but  he  did  not  send 
it.  Soon  after  this  deplorable  incident,  Walpole 
met  Charles  Marriott,  a  novelist  of  a  remarkable 
distinction.  Mr.  Marriott  did  not  agree  with  the 
schoolmaster  as  to  The  Wooden  Horse.  The  re- 
sult of  the  conflict  of  opinion  between  Mr.  Mar- 

[2.;] 


WHEN  WINTER  COMES  TO  MAIN  STREET 

riott  and  the  schoolmaster  was  that  Mr,  Walpole 
left  the  school  abruptly — perhaps  without  the  ap- 
proval of  his  family,  but  certainly  with  a  sum  of 
£30  which  he  had  saved.  His  destination  was 
London. 

"In  Chelsea  he  took  a  room  at  four  shillings  a 
week.  He  was  twenty-three  and  (in  theory)  a 
professional  author  at  last.  Through  the  favour- 
ing influence  of  Mr.  Marriott  he  obtained  a  tempo- 
rary job  on  the  London  Standard  as  a  critic  of  fie- 
tion.  It  lasted  three  weeks.  Then  he  got  a  regu- 
lar situation  on  the  same  paper,  a  situation  which 
I  think  he  kept  for  several  years.  The  Wooden 
Horse  was  published  by  a  historic  firm.  Statistics 
are  interesting  and  valuable — The  Wooden  Horse 
sold  seven  hundred  copies.  The  author's  profits 
therefrom  were  less  than  the  cost  of  typewriting 
the  novel.     History  is  constantly  repeating  itself. 

"Mr.  Walpole  was  quite  incurable,  and  he  kept 
on  writing  novels.  Maradick  at  Forty  was  the 
next  one.  It  sold  eleven  hundred  copies,  but  with 
no  greater  net  monetary  profit  to  the  author  than 
the  first  one.  He  made,  however,  a  more  shining 
profit  of  glory.  Maradick  at  Forty — as  the  phrase 
runs — 'attracted  attention.'  I  myself,  though  in 
a  foreign  country,  heard  of  it,  and  registered  the 
name  of  Hugh  Walpole  as  one  whose  progress 
must  be  watched." 


[26] 


THE  COURAGE  OF  HUGH  WALPOLE 

iv 

Not  so  long  ago  there  was  published  in  Eng- 
land, in  a  series  of  pocket-sized  books  called  the 
Kings  Treasuries  of  Literature  (under  the  gen- 
eral editorship  of  Sir  A.  T.  Quiller-Couch),  a 
small  volume  called  A  Hugh  Walpole  Anthology. 
This  consisted  of  selections  from  Mr.  Walpole's 
novels  up  to  and  including  The  Captives.  The 
selection  was  made  by  Mr.  Walpole  himself. 

I  think  that  the  six  divisions  into  which  the 
selections  fell  are  interesting  as  giving,  in  a  few 
words,  a  prospectus  of  Walpole's  work.  The 
titles  of  the  sections  were  "Some  Children,"  "Men 
and  Women,"  "Some  Incidents,"  "London," 
"Country  Places,"  and  "Russia."  The  excerpts 
under  the  heading  "Some  Children"  are  all  from 
Jeremy  and  The  Golden  Scarecrow.  The  "Men 
and  Women"  are  Mr.  Perrin  and  Mrs.  Comber, 
from  The  Gods  and  Mr.  Perrin;  Mr.  Trenchard 
and  Aunt  Aggie,  from  The  Green  Mirror;  and  Mr. 
Crashaw,  from  The  Captives.  The  "Incidents" 
are  chosen  with  an  equal  felicity — we  have  the 
theft  of  an  umbrella  from  The  Gods  and  Mr.  Per- 
rin and,  out  of  the  same  book,  the  whole  passage 
in  which  Mr.  Perrin  sees  double.  There  is  also  a 
scene  from  Fortitude,  "After  Defeat."  After  two 
episodes  from  The  Green  Mirror,  this  portion  of 
the  anthology  is  closed  with  the  tragic  passage 
from  The  Captives  in  which  Maggie  finds  her 
uncle. 

[27] 


WHEN  WINTER  COMES  TO  MAIN  STREET 

Among  the  London  places  pictured  by  Mr.  Wal- 
pole  in  his  novels  and  in  this  pleasant  anthology 
are  Fleet  Street,  Chelsea,  Portland  Place,  The 
Strand,  and  Marble  Arch.  The  selections  under 
the  heading  "Country  Places"  are  bits  about  a 
cove,  the  sea,  dusk,  a  fire  and  homecoming.  The 
passages  that  relate  to  Russia  are  taken,  of  course, 
from  The  Dark  Forest  and  The  Secret  City. 

Not  the  least  interesting  thing  in  this  small 
volume  is  a  short  introductory  note  by  Joseph  Con- 
rad, who  speaks  of  the  anthology  as  "intelligently 
compiled,"  and  as  offering,  within  its  limits,  a 
sample  of  literary  shade  for  every  reader's  sym- 
pathy. "Sophistication,"  adds  Mr.  Conrad,  "is 
the  only  shade  that  does  not  exist  in  Mr.  Wal- 
pole's  prose."    He  goes  on : 

"Of  the  general  soundness  of  Mr.  Walpole's 
work  I  am  perfectly  convinced.  Let  no  modern 
and  malicious  mind  take  this  declaration  for  a 
left-handed  compliment.  Mr.  Walpole's  sound- 
ness is  not  of  conventions  but  of  convictions ;  and 
even  as  to  these,  let  no  one  suppose  that  Mr.  Wal- 
pole's convictions  are  old-fashioned.  He  is  dis- 
tinctly a  man  of  his  time;  and  it  is  just  because 
of  that  modernity,  informed  by  a  sane  judgment 
of  urgent  problems  and  wide  and  deep  sympathy 
with  all  mankind,  that  we  look  forward  hopefully 
to  the  growth  and  increased  importance  of  his 
work.  In  his  style,  so  level,  so  consistent,  Mr. 
Hugh  Walpole  does  not  seek  so  much  for  novel  as 
for  individual  expression;  and  this  search,   this 

[28] 


THE  COURAGE  OF  HUGH  WALPOLE 

ambition  so  natural  to  an  artist,  is  often  rewarded 
by  success.  Old  and  young  interest  him  alike  and 
he  treats  both  with  a  sure  touch  and  in  the  kindest 
manner.  In  each  of  these  passages  we  see  Mr. 
Walpole  grappling  with  the  truth  of  things  spir- 
itual and  material  with  his  characteristic  earnest- 
ness, and  in  the  whole  we  can  discern  the  charac- 
teristics of  this  acute  and  sympathetic  explorer 
of  human  nature :  His  love  of  adventure  and  the 
serious  audacity  he  brings  to  the  task  of  recording 
the  changes  of  human  fate  and  the  moments  of 
human  emotion,  in  the  quiet  backwaters  or  in  the 
tumultuous  open  streams  of  existence." 


There  is  not  space  here  to  reprint  all  of  Joseph 
Hergesheimer's  Appreciation  of  Hugh  Walpole, 
published  in  a  booklet  in  1919 — a  booklet  still 
obtainable — but  I  would  like  to  quote  a  few 
sentences  from  the  close  of  Mr.  Hergesheimer's 
essay,  where  he  says: 

"As  a  whole,  Hugh  Walpole's  novels  maintain 
an  impressive  unity  of  expression;  they  are  the 
distinguished  presentation  of  a  distinguished 
mind.  Singly  and  in  a  group,  they  hold  possibili- 
ties of  infinite  development.  This,  it  seems  to 
me,  is  most  clearly  marked  in  their  superiority  to 
the  cheap  materialism  that  has  been  the  insistent 
note  of  the  prevailing  optimistic  fiction.  There 
is  a  great  deal  of  happiness  in  Mr.  Walpole's 

[29] 


WHEN  WINTER  COMES  TO  MAIN  STREET 

pages,  but  it  is  not  founded  on  surface  vulgarity 
of  appetite.  The  drama  of  his  books  is  not  sapped 
by  the  automatic  security  of  invulnerable  heroics. 
Accidents  happen,  tragic  and  humorous;  the  life 
of  his  novels  is  checked  in  black  and  white,  often 
shrouded  in  grey;  the  sun  moves  and  stars  come 
out;  youth  grows  old;  charm  fades;  girls  may  or 
may  not  be  pretty;  his  old  women 

"But  there  he  is  inimitable.  The  old  gentle- 
women, or  caretakers,  dry  and  twisted,  brittle  and 
sharp,  repositories  of  emotion — vanities  and  mal- 
ice and  self-seeking — like  echoes  of  the  past,  or 
fat  and  loquacious,  with  alcoholic  sentimentality, 
are  wonderfully  ingratiating.  They  gather  like 
shadows,  ghosts,  about  the  feet  of  the  young,  and 
provide  Mr.  Walpole  with  one  of  his  main  re- 
sources— the  restless  turning  away  of  the  young 
from  the  conventions,  prejudices  and  inhibitions 
of  yesterday.  He  is  singularly  intent  upon  the  in- 
justice of  locking  age  about  the  wrists  of  youth; 
and,  with  him,  youth  is  very  apt  to  escape,  to  defy 
authority  set  in  years  .  .  .  only  to  become,  in 
time,  age  itself." 

Perhaps  this  is  an  anti-climax:  The  Univer- 
sity of  Edinburgh  has  twice  awarded  the  Tait 
Black  Prize  for  the  best  novel  of  the  year  to  Mr. 
Walpole — first  for  The  Secret  City  in  1919  and 
then  for  The  Captives  in  1920. 


[30] 


THE  COURAGE  OF  HUGH  WALPOLE 

Books 

by  Hugh  Walpole 

Novels: 

THE   WOODEN    HORSE 

THE  GODS  AND  MR.  PERRIN 

(In  England,  mr.  perrin  and  mr.  traill) 

tHE  green   mirror 
THE  DARK  FOREST 
THE  SECRET  CITY 
THE  CAPTIVES 
THE   CATHEDRAL 

Romances: 

MARADICK  AT  FORTY 

THE  PRELUDE  TO  ADVENTURE 

FORTITUDE 

THE    DUCHESS    OF    WREXE 

THE    YOUNG    ENCHANTED 

Short  Stories: 

THE   GOLDEN   SCARECROW 

JEREMY 

THE  THIRTEEN    TRAVELLERS 

Belles-Lettres: 

JOSEPH  CONRAD — A  Critical  Study. 

Sources 
on  Hugh  Walpole 

Hugh    Walpole:   An    Appreciation^    by    Joseph 
Hergesheimer,  george  h.  doran  company. 

[31] 


WHEN  WINTER  COMES  TO  MAIN  STREET 

English  Literature  During  the  Last  Half  Century, 
by  J.  W.  Cunliffe,  the  macmillan  company. 

A  Hugh  Walpole  Anthology^  selected  by  the  au- 
thor. LONDON  :  J.  M.  DENT  &  SONS.  NEW  YORK: 
E.  P.  DUTTON   &  COMPANY. 

Hugh  Walpole,  Master  Novelist.  Pamphlet  pub- 
lished by  GEORGE   H.  DORAN   COMPANY.       (Out 

of  print.) 
Who's  Who  [In  England]. 


[32] 


Chapter  II 
HALF-SMILES  AND  GESTURES 


HALF-SMILES  and  gestures !  There  is  always 
a  younger  generation  but  it  is  not  always 
articulate.  The  war  may  not  have  changed  the 
face  of  the  world,  but  it  changed  the  faces  of  very 
many  young  men.  Faces  of  naive  enthusiasm 
and  an  innocent  expectancy  were  not  particularly 
noticeable  in  the  years  1918  to  1922.  The  som- 
breness,  the  abruptness,  the  savage  mood  evident 
in  the  writings  of  such  men  as  Barbusse  and  Sieg- 
fried Sassoon  were  abandoned.  Confronted  with 
the  riddle  of  life,  spared  the  enigma  of  death,  the 
young  men  have  felt  nothing  more  befitting  their 
age  and  generation  than  the  personal  "gesture." 

If  you  ask  me  what  is  a  gesture,  I  can't  say  that 
I  know.  It  is  something  felt  in  the  attitude  of  a 
person  to  whom  one  is  talking  or  whose  book  one 
is  reading.  And  the  gesture  is  accompanied,  in 
some  of  our  younger  writers,  with  an  expression 
that  is  both  serious  and  smiling.  These  half- 
smiles  are,  I  take  it,  youth's  comment  on  the  rid- 
dle of  a  continued  existence,  on  the  loss  of  well- 

[33] 


WHEN  WINTER  COMES  TO  MAIN  STREET 

lost  illusions,  on  the  uncertainty  of  all  future 
values.  What  is  there  worth  trying  for?  It  is 
not  too  clear,  hence  the  gesture.  What  is  there 
worth  the  expenditure  of  emotion?  It  is  doubt- 
ful; and  a  half-smile  is  the  best. 

Such  a  writer,  busily  experimenting  in  several 
directions,  is  Aldous  Huxley.  This  child  of 
1894,  the  son  of  Leonard  Huxley  (eldest  son  and 
biographer  of  Prof.  T.  H.  Huxley)  and  Julia 
Arnold  (niece  of  Martha  Arnold  and  sister  of 
Mrs.  Humphry  Ward),  has  with  three  books  of 
prose  built  up  a  considerable  and  devoted  follow- 
ing of  American  readers.  First  there  was  Limbo. 
Then  came  Crome  Yellow^  and  on  the  heels  of 
that  we  had  the  five  stories — if  you  like  to  call 
them  so — composing  Mortal  Coils.  I  have  seen 
no  comment  more  penetrating  than  that  of 
Michael  Sadleir,  himself  the  author  of  a  novel 
of  distinction.     Sadleir  says: 

"Already  Huxley  is  the  most  readable  of  his 
generation.  He  has  the  allurement  of  his  own  in- 
consistency, and  the  inconsistency  of  youth  is  its 
questing  spirit,  and,  consequently,  its  chief  claim 
to  respect. 

"At  present  there  are  several  Huxleys — the 
artificer  in  words,  the  amateur  of  garuage,  pierrot 
lunaire,  the  c}Tiic  in  rag-time,  the  fastidious  sen- 
sualist. For  my  part,  I  believe  only  in  the  last, 
taking  that  to  be  the  real  Huxley  and  the  rest 
prank,  virtuosity,  and,  most  of  all,  self-conscious- 
ness.   As  the  foal  will  shy  at  his  own  shadow,  so 

[34] 


HALF-SMILES  AND  GESTURES 

Aldous  Huxley,  nervous  by  fits  at  the  poise  of  his 
own  reality,  sidesteps  with  graceful  violence  into 
the  opposite  of  himself.  There  is  a  beautiful  ex- 
ample of  this  in  Mortal  Coils.  Among  the  stage- 
directions  to  his  play,  'Permutations  Among  the 
Nightingales,'  occur  the  following  sentences: 
'Sydney  Dolphin  has  a  romantic  appearance.  His 
two  volumes  of  verse  have  been  recognised  by 
intelligent  critics  as  remarkable.  How  far  they 
are  poetry  nobody,  least  of  all  Dolphin  himself,  is 
certain.  They  may  be  merely  the  ingenious  prod- 
ucts of  a  very  cultured  and  elaborate  brain.' 

"The  point  is  not  that  these  words  might  be 
applied  to  the  author  himself,  but  rather  that  he 
knows  they  might,  even  hopes  they  will,  and  has 
sought  to  lull  his  too-ready  self-criticism  by,  so  to 
speak,  getting  there  first  and  putting  down  on 
paper  what  he  imagines  others  may  think  or  write 
of  him. 

"Huxley  is  a  poet  and  writer  of  prose.  His 
varied  personalities  show  themselves  in  both.  The 
artificer  in  words  is  almost  omnipresent,  and  God 
forbid  that  he  ever  vanish  utterly.*  The  disciple 
of  Laforgue  has  produced  lovely  and  skilful 
things,  and  one  is  grateful  for  the  study  of  the 
French  symbolists  that  instigated  the  translation 
of  'L'Apres-midi  d'un  Faune.'  In  The  Walk'  the 
recapture  of  Laforgue's  blend  of  the  exotic  and 
the  everyday  is  astonishingly  complete. 

"The  cynic  is  as  accomplished  as  the  Pierrot 
and  'Social  Amenities,'  parts  of  'Soles  Occidere 

[35] 


WHEN  WINTER  COMES  TO  MAIN  STREET 

et  Redire  Possunt,'  and,  in  Limbo^  'Richard 
Greenow'  (first  loo  pages)  and  'Happy  Families' 
are  syncopated  actuality,  and  the  mind  jigs  an 
appreciative  shoulder,  as  the  body  jerks  irresist- 
ibly to  'Indianola.' 

"There  remains  Huxley  the  sensualist,  a  very 
ardent  lover  of  beauty,  but  one  that  shrinks  from 
the  sordid  preamble  of  modern  gallantry,  one  that 
is  apprehensive  of  the  inevitable  disillusionment. 
As  others  have  done,  as  others  will  do,  he  finds  in 
imagination  the  adventure  that  progress  has  de- 
creed unseemly. 

"The  reader  who  is  shocked  by  'slabby-bellies,' 
'mucus,'  'Priapuiids' ;  the  reader  who  is  awed  by 
the  paraded  learning  of  'Splendour  by  Numbers,' 
by  the  deliberate  intricacy  of  'Beauty,'  or  the  deli- 
cate fatigue  of  'The  Death  of  Lully'  in  Limbo — 
these  are  no  audience  for  an  artist.  It  tickles  the 
author's  fancy,  stretches  his  wits,  flatters  his  dev- 
iltry to  provoke  and  witness  such  consternation 
and  such  respect.  But  the  process  is  waste  of  time, 
and  a  writer  of  Huxley's  quality,  whatever  his 
youth,  has  never  time  to  waste." 


11 

Readers  who  have  chuckled  over  Guinea  Girl 
or  have  read  with  the  peculiar  delight  of  discov- 
ery The  Pilgrim  of  a  Stnile  are  astonished  to  learn 
that  its  author  is,  properly  speaking,  an  engineer. 
Norman  Davey,  born  in  1888  (Cambridge  1908- 

[36] 


HALF-SMILES  AND  GESTURES 

lo)  is  the  son  of  Henry  Davey,  an  engineer  of 
eminence.  After  taking  honours  in  chemistry  and 
physics,  Norman  Davey  travelled  in  America 
(1911),  particularly  in  Virginia  and  Carolina. 
Then  he  went  to  serve  as  an  apprentice  in  engi- 
neering work  in  the  North  of  England  and  to 
study  in  the  University  of  Montpellier  in  France. 

His  first  book  was  The  Gas  Turbine^  published 
in  London  and  now  a  classic  on  its  subject.  In 
the  four  years  preceding  the  war  he  contributed 
articles  on  thermodynamics  to  scientific  papers. 
It  is  only  honest  to  add  that  at  the  same  time  he 
contributed  to  Punch  and  Life — chiefly  verse. 

After  the  war  he  had  a  book  of  verse  published 
in  England  and  followed  it  with  The  Pilgrim  of 
a  Smile.  He  has  travelled  a  good  deal  in  Spain, 
Italy,  Sweden,  and  his  hobby  is  book  collecting. 
This  is  all  very  well ;  and  it  explains  how  he  could 
provide  the  necessary  atmosphere  for  that  laugh- 
able story  of  Monte  Carlo,  Guinea  Girl;  but  one 
is  scarcely  prepared  for  The  Tilgrim  of  a  Smile 
by  those  preliminaries  in  thermodynamics — or  in 
Punch.  The  story  of  the  man  who  did  not  ask 
the  Sphinx  for  love  or  fame  or  money  but  for  the 
reason  of  her  smile  is  one  of  the  most  intelligible 
of  the  gestures  characteristic  of  literature  since 
the  war. 

iii 

The  gesture  as  such  is  perhaps  most  definitely 
recognised  in  the  charming  book  by  John  Dos 

[37] 


WHEN  WINTER  COMES  TO  MAIN  STREET 

Passes,  Rosinante  to  the  Road  Again.  This,  in- 
deed, is  the  story  of  a  gesture  and  a  quest  for  it. 
The  gesture  is  that  of  Castile,  defined  in  the  open- 
ing chapter  in  some  memorable  words  exchanged 
by  Telemachus  and  his  friend  Lyaeus: 

"  'It's  the  gesture  that's  so  overpowering;  don't 
you  feel  it  in  your  arms'?  Something  sudden  and 
tremendously  muscular.' 

"  'When  Belmonte  turned  his  back  suddenly  on 
the  bull  and  walked  away  dragging  the  red  cloak 
on  the  ground  behind  him  I  felt  it,'  said  Lyseus. 

"  'That  gesture,  a  yellow  flame  against  maroon 
and  purple  cadences  ...  an  instant  swagger  of 
defiance  in  the  midst  of  a  litany  to  death  the  all- 
powerful.  That  is  Spain  .  .  .  Castile  at  any 
rate.' 

"  'Is  "swagger"  the  right  word*?'  '* 

"'Find  a  better  I' 

"  'For  the  gesture  a  mediseval  knight  made 
when  he  threw  his  mailed  glove  at  his  enemy's 
feet  or  a  rose  in  his  lady's  window,  that  a  mule- 
driver  makes  when  he  tosses  off  a  glass  of  aguard- 
iente, that  Pastora  Imperio  makes  dancing  ,   .   .'  " 

I  do  not  know  whether  one  should  classify 
Rosinante  as  a  book  of  travel,  a  book  of  essays,  a 
book  of  criticisms.  It  is  all  three — an  integrated 
gesture.  Certain  interspersed  chapters  purport  to 
relate  the  wayside  conversations  of  Telemachus 
and  Lyaeus — dual  phases  of  the  author's  person- 
ality shall  we  say"? — and  the  people  they  meet. 
The  other  chapters  are  acute  studies  of  modern 

[38] 


HALF-SMILES  AND  GESTURES 

Spain,  with  rather  special  attention  to  modern 
Spanish  writers.  One  varies  in  his  admiration 
between  such  an  essay  as  that  on  Miguel  de 
Unamuno  and  such  an  unforgettable  picture  as 
the  vision  of  Jorge  Manrique  composing  his  splen- 
did ode  to  Death: 

"It  had  been  raining.  Lights  rippled  red  and 
orange  and  yellow  and  green  on  the  clean  paving- 
stones.  A  cold  wind  off  the  Sierra  shrilled  through 
clattering  streets.  As  they  walked  the  other  man 
was  telling  how  this  Castilian  nobleman,  courtier, 
man-at-arms,  had  shut  himself  up  when  his  fa- 
ther, the  Master  of  Santiago,  died,  and  had 
written  this  poem,  created  this  tremendous 
rhythm  of  death  sweeping  like  a  wind  over  the 
world.  He  had  never  written  anything  else. 
They  thought  of  him  in  the  court  of  his  great  dust- 
coloured  mansion  at  Ocana,  where  the  broad  eaves 
were  full  of  a  cooing  of  pigeons  and  the  wide 
halls  had  dark  rafters  painted  with  arabesques  in 
vermilion,  in  a  suit  of  black  velvet,  writing  at  a 
table  under  a  lemon  tree.  Down  the  sun-scarred 
street,  in  the  cathedral  that  was  building  in  those 
days,  full  of  a  smell  of  scaffolding  and  stone  dust, 
there  must  have  stood  a  tremendous  catafalque 
where  lay  with  his  arms  around  him  the  Master 
of  Santiago;  in  the  carved  seats  of  the  choirs  the 
stout  canons  intoned  an  endless  growling  litany; 
at  the  sacristy  door,  the  flare  of  the  candles  flash- 
ing occasionally  on  the  jewels  of  his  mitre,  the 
bishop  fingered  his  crosier  restlessly,  asking  his 

[39] 


WHEN  WINTER  COMES  TO  MAIN  STREET 

favourite  choir-boy  from  time  to  time  why  Don 
Jorge  had  not  arrived.  And  messengers  must  have 
come  running  to  Don  Jorge,  telling  him  the  serv- 
ice was  at  the  point  of  beginning,  and  he  must 
have  waved  them  away  with  a  grave  gesture  of  a 
long  white  hand,  while  in  his  mind  the  distant 
sound  of  chanting,  the  jingle  of  the  silver  bit  of 
his  roan  horse  stamping  nervously  where  he  was 
tied  to  a  twined  Moorish  column,  memories  of 
cavalcades  filing  with  braying  of  trumpets  and 
flutter  of  crimson  damask  into  conquered  towns, 
of  court  ladies  dancing  and  the  noise  of  pigeons 
in  the  eaves  drew  together  like  strings  plucked  in 
succession  on  a  guitar  into  a  great  wave  of  rhythm 
in  which  his  life  was  sucked  away  into  this  one 
poem  in  praise  of  death." 


IV 

The  Column  is  an  American  institution.  What 
is  meant,  of  course,  is  that  daily  vertical  discus- 
sion of  Things  That  Have  Interested  Me  by  dif- 
ferent individuals  attached  to  different  papers  and 
having  in  common  only  the  great  gift  of  being 
interested  in  what  interests  everybody  else.  Per- 
haps that  is  not  right,  either.  Maybe  the  gift  is 
that  of  being  able  to  interest  everybody  else  in 
the  things  you  are  interested  in.  Of  all  those  who 
write  a  Column,  Heywood  Broun  is  possibly  the 
one  whose  interests  are  the  most  varied.  It  is 
precisely    this    variety    which    makes    his    book 

[40] 


HALF-SMILES  AND  GESTURES 

Pieces  of  Hate:  and  Other  Enthusiasms  unique  as 
a  collection  of  essays.  He  will  write  on  one  page 
about  the  boxing  ring,  on  the  next  about  the  thea- 
tre, a  little  farther  along  about  books,  farther  on 
yet  about  politics.  He  makes  excursions  into  col- 
lege sports,  horse  racing  and  questions  of  fair 
play;  and  the  problems  of  child-rearing  are  his 
constant  preoccupation. 

Consider  some  of  his  topics.  We  have  an 
opening  study  of  the  literary  masterpiece  of  E.  M. 
Hull,  the  novel  celebrating  the  adventures  of  Miss 
Diana  Mayo  and  the  Sheik  Ahmed  Ben  Hassan. 
The  next  chapter  deals  with  Hans  Christian 
Andersen  and  literary  and  dramatic  critics. 
Pretty  soon  we  are  discussing  after-dinner 
speeches,  Babe  Ruth  and  Jack  Dempsey.  If  this 
is  a  gesture,  all  I  can  say  is,  it  is  a  pin  wheel ;  and 
yet  Broun  writes  only  about  things  he  knows 
about.  Lest  you  think  from  my  description  that 
Pieces  of  Hate  is  a  book  in  a  wholly  unserious  ^ 
vein,  I  invite  you  to  read  the  little  story,  "Frank-  -pp^^y^ 
incense  and  Myrrh."  '*' 

"Once  there  were  three  kings  in  the  East  and 
they  were  wise  men.  They  read  the  heavens  and 
they  saw  a  certain  strange  star  by  which  they  knew 
that  in  a  distant  land  the  King  of  the  World  was 
to  be  born.  The  star  beckoned  to  them  and  they 
made  preparations  for  a  long  journey. 

"From  their  palaces  they  gathered  rich  gifts, 
gold  and  frankincense  and  myrrh.  Great  sacks 
of  precious  stuffs  were  loaded  upon  the  backs  of 

[41] 


o^ 


WHEN  WINTER  COMES  TO  MAIN  STREET 

the  camels  which  were  to  bear  them  on  their  jour- 
ney. Everything  was  in  readiness,  but  one  of  the 
wise  men  seemed  perplexed  and  would  not  come 
at  once  to  join  his  two  companions  who  were 
eager  and  impatient  to  be  on  their  way  in  the 
direction  indicated  by  the  star. 

"They  were  old,  these  two  kings,  and  the  other 
wise  man  was  young.  When  they  asked  him  he 
could  not  tell  why  he  waited.  He  knew  that  his 
treasuries  had  been  ransacked  for  rich  gifts  for  the 
King  of  Kings.  It  seemed  that  there  was  nothing 
more  which  he  could  give,  and  yet  he  was  not  con- 
tent. 

"He  made  no  answer  to  the  old  men  who 
shouted  to  him  that  the  time  had  come.  The 
camels  were  impatient  and  swayed  and  snarled. 
The  shadows  across  the  desert  grew  longer.  And 
still  the  young  king  sat  and  thought  deeply. 

"At  length  he  smiled,  and  he  ordered  his  serv- 
ants to  open  the  great  treasure  sack  upon  the  back 
of  the  first  of  his  camels.  Then  he  went  into  a 
high  chamber  to  which  he  had  not  been  since  he 
was  a  child.  He  rummaged  about  and  presently 
came  out  and  approached  the  caravan.  In  his 
hand  he  carried  something  which  glinted  in  the 
sun. 

"The  kings  thought  that  he  bore  some  new  gift 
more  rare  and  precious  than  any  which  they  had 
been  able  to  find  in  all  their  treasure  rooms.  They 
bent  down  to  see,  and  even  the  camel  drivers 
peered  from  the  backs  of  the  great  beasts  to  find 

[42] 


HALF-SMILES  AND  GESTURES 

out  what  it  was  which  gleamed  in  the  sun.  They 
were  curious  about  this  last  gift  for  which  all  the 
caravan  had  waited. 

"And  the  young  king  took  a  toy  from  his  hand 
and  placed  it  upon  the  sand.  It  was  a  dog  of 
tin,  painted  white  and  speckled  with  black  spots. 
Great  patches  of  paint  had  worn  away  and  left 
the  metal  clear,  and  that  was  why  the  toy  shone 
in  the  sun  as  if  it  had  been  silver. 

"The  youngest  of  the  wise  men  turned  a  key  in 
the  side  of  the  little  black  and  white  dog  and  then 
he  stepped  aside  so  that  the  kings  and  the  camel 
drivers  could  see.  The  dog  leaped  high  in  the  air 
and  turned  a  somersault.  He  turned  another  and 
another  and  then  fell  over  upon  his  side  and  lay 
there  with  a  set  and  painted  grin  upon  his  face. 

"A  child,  the  son  of  a  camel  driver,  laughed  and 
clapped  his  hands,  but  the  kings  were  stern. 
They  rebuked  the  youngest  of  the  wise  men  and 
he  paid  no  attention  but  called  to  his  chief  serv- 
ant to  make  the  first  of  all  the  camels  kneel.  Then 
he  picked  up  the  toy  of  tin  and,  opening  the  treas- 
ure sack,  placed  his  last  gift  with  his  own  hands 
in  the  mouth  of  the  sack  so  that  it  rested  safely 
upon  the  soft  bags  of  incense. 

"  'What  folly  has  seized  you*?'  cried  the  eldest 
of  the  wise  men.  Ts  this  a  gift  to  bear  to  the 
King  of  Kings  in  the  far  country?' 

"And  the  young  man  answered  and  said:  'For 
the  King  of  Kings  there  are  gifts  of  great  rich- 
ness, gold  and  frankincense  and  myrrh. 

[43] 


WHEN  WINTER  COMES  TO  MAIN  STREET 

"  'But  this,'  he  said,  'is  for  the  child  in  Beth- 
lehem I'" 


Editor  of  the  London  Mercury,  J.  C.  Squire  has 
the  light  touch  of  the  columnist  but  limits  himself 
somewhat  more  closely  to  books  and  the  subjects 
suggested  by  them.  Very  few  men  living  can 
write  about  books  with  more  actual  and  less  ap- 
parent erudition  than  Mr.  Squire.  Born  in  1884, 
educated  at  Cambridge,  an  editor  of  the  New 
Statesman,  a  poet  unsurpassed  in  the  field  of 
parody  but  a  poet  who  sets  more  store  by  his  seri- 
ous verse,  Mr.  Squire  can  best  be  appreciated  by 
those  who  have  just  that  desultory  interest  in 
literature  which  he  himself  possesses.  I  have 
been  looking  through  his  Books  in  General^  Third 
Series^  for  something  quotable,  and  I  declare  I 
cannot  lift  anything  from  its  setting.  It  is  all  of 
a  piece,  from  the  essay  on  "If  One  Were  De- 
scended from  Shakespeare"  to  the  remarks  about 
Ben  Jonson,  Maeterlinck,  Ruskin,  Cecil  Chester- 
ton and  Mr.  Kipling's  later  verse  (which  I  have 
nowhere  seen  more  sensibly  discussed). 

Well,  perhaps  these  observations  from  the  chap- 
ter "A  Terrifying  Collection"  will  give  the  taste  I 
It  appears  that  an  anonymous  donor  had  offered 
money  to  the  Birmingham  Reference  Library  to 
pay  for  the  gathering  of  a  complete  collection  of 
the   war  poetry   issued    in   the   British   Empire. 

[44] 


HALF-SMILES  AND  GESTURES 

After  some  preliminary  comment,  Mr.  Squire  con- 
cludes : 

"If  that  donor  really  means  business  I  shall  be 
prepared  to  supply  him  with  one  or  two  rare  and 
special  examples  myself.  I  possess  tributes  to  the 
English  effort  written  by  Portuguese,  Japanese 
and  Belgians;  and  pseans  by  Englishmen  which 
excel,  as  regards  both  simplicity  of  sentiment  and 
illiteracy  of  construction,  any  foreign  composi- 
tion. Birmingham  is  not  noted  for  very  many 
things.  It  is,  we  know,  the  only  large  city  in  the 
country  which  remains  solidly  Tory  in  election 
after  election.  It  produced,  we  know,  Mr.  Joseph 
and  Mr.  Austen  Chamberlain.  It  has,  we  know, 
something  like  a  monopoly  in  the  manufacture  of 
the  gods  in  wood  and  brass  to  which  (in  his  blind- 
ness) the  heathen  bows  down;  and  there  are  all 
sorts  of  cheap  lines  in  which  it  can  give  the  whole 
world  points  and  a  beating.  But  it  has  not  yet 
got  the  conspicuous  position  of  Manchester  or 
Liverpool;  and  one  feels  that  the  enterprise  of 
this  anonymous  donor  may  help  to  put  it  on  a 
level  with  those  towns.  For,  granted  that  its 
librarians  take  their  commission  seriously,  and  its 
friends  give  them  the  utmost  assistance  in  their 
power,  there  seems  every  reason  to  suppose  that 
within  the  next  year  the  City  of  Birmingham  will 
be  the  proud  possessor  of  the  largest  mound  of 
villainously  bad  literature  in  the  English-speaking 
world.  Pilgrims  will  go  to  see  it  who  on  no  other 
account  would  have  gone  to  Birmingham;  his- 

[45] 


WHEN  WINTER  COMES  TO  MAIN  STREET 

torians  will  refer  to  it  when  endeavouring  to  prove 
that  their  own  ages  are  superior  to  ours  in  intelli- 
gence; authors  will  inspect  it  when  seeking  the 
consoling  assurance  that  far,  far  worse  things 
than  they  have  ever  done  have  got  into  public 
libraries  and  been  seriously  catalogued.  The  en- 
terprise, in  fact,  is  likely  to  be  of  service  to  sev- 
eral classes  of  our  fellow-citizens;  and  it  cannot, 
as  far  as  I  am  able  to  see,  do  harm  to  any.  It 
should  therefore  be  encouraged,  and  I  recommend 
anyone  who  has  volumes  of  war-verse  which  he 
wishes  to  get  rid  of  to  send  them  off  at  once  to  the 
Chief  Librarian  of  Birmingham." 

Oh,  yes  I  Books  in  General^  Third  Series^  is  by 
Solomon  Eagle.  Mr.  Squire  explains  that  the  pen 
name  Solomon  Eagle  has  no  excuse.  The  original 
bearer  of  the  name  was  a  poor  maniac  who,  during 
the  Great  Plague  of  London,  used  to  run  naked 
through  the  streets  with  a  pan  of  coals  of  fire  on 
his  head  crying,  "Repent,  repent." 

Too  late  I  realise  my  wrongdoing,  for  what, 
after  all,  is  Books  in  General  as  compared  to  Mr. 
Squire's  Life  and  Letters?  As  a  divertissement, 
compared  to  a  tone  poem;  as  a  curtain-raiser  to 
a  three-act  play.  Life  and  Letters,  though  not 
lacking  in  the  lighter  touches  of  Mr.  Squire's 
fancy,  contains  chapters  on  Keats,  Jane  Austen, 
\  Anatole  France,  Walt  Whitman,  Pope  and  Rabe- 
lais of  that  more  considered  character'one  expects 
from  the  editor  of  the  London  Mercury.';  This  is 
not  to  say  that  these  studies  are  devoid  of  humour; 


HALF-SMILES  AND  GESTURES 

and  those  chapters  in  the  volume  which  are  in  the 
nature  of  interludes  are  among  the  best  Mr. 
Squire  has  written.  Unfortunately  I  have  left 
myself  no  room  to  quote  the  incomparable  pane- 
gyric (in  the  chapter  on  "Initials")  to  the  name 
of  John.  Read  it,  if  your  name  is  John ;  you  will 
thank  me  for  bringing  it  to  your  attention. 


VI 

One  expects  personality  in  the  daughter  of 
Margot  Asquith,  and  the  readers  of  the  first  book 
by  Princess  Antoine  Bibesco  (Elizabeth  Asquith) 
were  not  disappointed.  The  same  distinction  and 
the  same  unusual  personality  will  be  found  in  her 
new  book,  Balloons.  Princess  Bibesco's  I  Have 
Only  Myself  to  Blame  consisted  of  sixteen  short 
stories  the  most  nervously  alive  and  most  clearly 
individualised  of  feminine  gestures.  The  quality 
of  Princess  Bibesco's  work,  in  so  far  as  purely  de- 
scriptive passages  can  convey  it,  may  be  realised 
from  these  portraits  of  a  father  and  mother  which 
open  the  story  called  "Pilgrimage"  in  /  Have 
Only  Myself  to  Blame: 

"My  father  was  one  of  the  most  brilliant  men 
I  have  ever  known  but  as  he  refused  to  choose  any 
of  the  ordinary  paths  of  mental  activity  his  name 
has  remained  a  family  name  when  it  should  have 
become  more  exclusively  his  own.  If  anything, 
my  mother's  famous  beauty  cast  far  more  lustre 
on  it  than  his  genius — which  preferred  to  bask 

[47] 


WHEN  WINTER  COMES  TO  MAIN  STREET 

in  the  sunshine  of  intimacy  or  recline  indolently 
in  the  shady  backwaters  of  privacy  and  leisure. 
And  yet  in  a  way  he  was  an  adventurer — or  rather 
an  adventurous  scientist.  He  was  often  cal]ed 
cynical  but  that  was  not  true — he  was  far  too 
dispassionate,  too  little  of  a  sentimentalist  to  be 
tempted  by  inverted  sentimentalism.  Above  all 
things  he  was  a  collector — a  collector  of  impres- 
sions. His  psychological  bibelots  were  not  for 
everyone.  Some,  indeed,  lay  open  in  the  vitime 
of  his  everyday  conversation  but  many  more  lay 
hidden  in  drawers  opened  only  for  the  elect. 

"Undoubtedly,  in  a  way,  my  mother  was  one 
of  his  masterpieces.  Her  beauty  seemed  to  be 
enhanced  by  every  hour  and  every  season.  At 
forty  suddenly  her  hair  had  gone  snow  white. 
The  primrose,  the  daffodil,  the  flame,  the  gold,  the 
black,  the  emerald,  the  ruby  of  her  youth  gave 
way  to  grey  and  silver,  pale  jade  and  faint  tur- 
quoise, shell  pink  and  dim  lavender.  Her  loveli- 
ness had  shifted.  The  hours  of  the  day  conspired 
to  set  her.  The  hard  coat  and  skirt,  the  high  col- 
lar, the  small  hat,  the  neat  veil  of  morning,  the 
caressing  charmeuse  that  followed,  the  trailing 
chiffon  mysteries  of  her  tea-gown,  the  white  velvet 
or  the  cloth  of  silver  that  launched  her  trium- 
phantly at  night,  who  was  to  choose  between 
them*?  Summer  and  winter  followed  suit. 
Whether  you  saw  her  emerging  from  crisp  or- 
gandy or  clinging  crepe  de  chine,  stiff  grey  as- 
trakan  or  melting  chinchilla  always  it  was  the 

[48] 


HALF-SMILES  AND  GESTURES 

same.  This  moment  you  said  to  yourself,  'She  has 
reached  the  climax  of  her  loveliness.' 

"My  father  delighted  in  perfection.  He  had 
discovered  it  in  her  and  promptly  made  it  his  own. 
I  don't  know  if  he  ever  regretted  the  unfillable 
quality  of  her  emptiness.  Rather  I  think  it 
amused  him  to  see  the  violent  passions  she  in- 
spired, to  hear  her  low  thrilling  voice  weigh  down 
her  meaningless  murmurs  with  significance.  To 
many  of  her  victims  the  very  incompleteness  of 
her  sentences  was  a  form  of  divine  loyalty.  One 
young  poet  had  described  her  soul  as  a  fluttering, 
desperate  bird  beating  its  wings  on  the  bars  of  her 
marvellous  loveliness.  At  this  her  lazy  smile 
looked  very  wise.  She  thought  my  father  an  ideal 
husband.  He  was  always  right  about  her  clothes 
and  after  all  he  was  the  greatest  living  expert 
on  her  beauty.  ("Obviously  he  loved  her  but — well, 
he  didn't  love  her  inconveniently^' 

vii 

There  will  be  some  who  remember  reading  a 
first  novel,  published  several  years  ago,  called  . 
Responsibility.  This  was  a  study  from  a  Samuel --'^^^'^'^ 
Butleresque  standpoint  of  the  attitude  of  a  father 
toward  an  illegitimate  son.  At  least,  that  is  what 
it  came  to  in  the  end;  but  there  were  leisurely 
earlier  pages  dealing  with  such  subjects  as  the  tire- 
someness of  Honest  Work  and  the  dishonesty  of 
righteous   people.      Very   good   they   were,    too. 

[49] 


WHEN  WINTER  COMES  TO  MAIN  STREET 

James  E.  Agate  was  the  author  of  this  decidedly 
interesting  piece  of  fiction.  He  was  not  a  partic- 
ularly young  man,  being  in  his  early  forties;  but 
he  was  a  youngish  man.  He  was  youngish  in  the 
sense  that  Mr.  Wells  and  Mr.  Bennett  are  young- 
ish, and  not  in  the  sense  of  Sir  James  Peter  Pan 
Barrie — incapable  of  growing  up.  As  dramatic 
critic  for  the  Saturday  Review,  London,  Agate 
has  been  much  happier  than  in  a  former  experi- 
ence on  the  Cotton  Exchange  of  Manchester,  his 
native  city.  "Each  week,"  said  The  Londoner  in 
The  Bookman,  recently,  "he  watches  over  the 
theatre  with  an  enthusiasm  for  the  drama  which 
must  constantly  be  receiving  disagreeable  shocks. 
He  is  a  man  full  of  schemes,  so  that  the  title  of 
his  new  book  is  distinctly  appropriate."  That 
new  book  is  called  Alarums  and  Excursions. 

"Agate  is  not  peaceable,"  continues  our  inform- 
ant. "He  carries  his  full  energy,  which  is 
astounding,  into  each  topic  that  arises.  He  seizes 
it.  Woe  betide  the  man  who  dismisses  an  idol  of 
his.  It  is  not  to  be  done.  He  will  submit  to  no 
man,  however  great  that  man's  prestige  may  be. 
He  is  the  bulldog." 

Agate  is  a  critic  "still  vigorous  enough  and 
fresh  enough  to  attack  and  to  destroy  shams  of 
every  kind.  This  is  what  Agate  does  in  Alarums 
and  Excursions." 

Bright  news  is  it  that  Agate  is  writing  a  new 
novel  "on  the  Balzacian  scale  of  Responsibility." 

[50] 


HALF-SMILES  AND  GESTURES 


viu 


It  was  in  1918,  when  I  was  exploring  new 
books  for  a  New  York  book  section,  that  there 
came  to  hand  a  volume  called  Walking-Stick 
Papers.     Therein  I  found  such  stuff  as  this: 

"And  so  the  fish  reporter  enters  upon  the  last 
lap  of  his  rounds.  Through,  perhaps,  the  narrow, 
crooked  lane  of  Pine  Street  he  passes,  to  come  out 
at  length  upon  a  scene  set  for  a  sea  tale.  Here 
would  a  lad,  heir  to  vast  estates  in  Virginia,  be 
kidnapped  and  smuggled  aboard  to  be  sold  a  slave 
in  Africa.  This  is  Front  Street.  A  white  ship  lies 
at  the  foot  of  it.  Cranes  rise  at  her  side.  Tugs, 
belching  smoke,  bob  beyond.  All  about  are  an- 
cient warehouses,  redolent  of  the  Thames,  with 
steep  roofs  and  sometimes  stairs  outside,  and  with 
tall  shutters,  a  crescent-shaped  hole  in  each. 
There  is  a  dealer  in  weather-vanes.  Other  things 
dealt  in  hereabout  are  these :  Chronometers,  'nau- 
tical instruments,'  wax  guns,  cordage  and  twine, 
marine  paints,  cotton  wool  and  waste,  turpentine, 
oils,  greases,  and  rosin.  Queer  old  taverns,  pub- 
lic houses,  are  here,  too.  Why  do  not  their  win- 
dows rattle  with  a  ' Yo,  ho,  ho'  *? 

"There  is  an  old,  old  house  whose  business 
has  been  fish  oil  within  the  memory  of  men.  And 
here  is  another.  Next,  through  Water  Street,  one 
comes  in  search  of  the  last  word  on  salt  fish.  Now 
the  air  is  filled  with  gorgeous  smell  of  roasting 
coffee.     Tea,  coffee,  sugar,  rice,  spices,  bags  and 

[51] 


WHEN  WINTER  COMES  TO  MAIN  STREET 

bagging  here  have  their  home.  And  there  are 
haughty  bonded  warehouses  filled  with  fine  li- 
quors. From  his  white  cabin  at  the  top  of  a  ven- 
erable structure  comes  the  dean  of  the  salt-fish 
business.  'Export  trade  fair,'  he  says;  'good  de- 
mand from  South  America.'  " 

The  whole  book  was  like  that.  I  remember 
saying  and  printing: 

"If  this  isn't  individualised  writing,  extremely 
skilful  writing  and  highly  entertaining  writing, 
we  would  like  to  know  what  is." 

But  what  was  that  in  the  general  chorus  of 
delighted  praise  that  went  up  all  over  the  coun- 
try?— and  there  were  persons  of  discrimination 
among  the  laudators  of  Robert  Cortes  HoUiday. 
People  like  James  Huneker  and  Simeon  Strunsky, 
who  praised  not  lightly,  were  quick  to  express  their 
admiration  of  this  new  essayist. 

Four  years  have  gone  adding  to  Holliday's 
first  book  volumes  in  the  same  class  and  singularly 
unmistakeable  in  their  authorship.  They  are  the 
sort  of  essays  that  could  not  be  anonymous  once 
the  authorship  of  one  of  them  was  known.  We 
have,  now,  Broome  Street  Straws  and  the  pocket 
mirror.  Peeps  at  People.  We  have  Men  and 
Books  and  Cities  and  we  have  a  score  of  pleasant 
Turns  About  Town. 

Holliday  shows  no  sign  of  failing  us.  I  think 
the  truth  is  that  he  is  one  of  those  persons  de- 
scribed somewhere  by  Wilson  Follett;  I  think 
FoUett    was   trying   to   convey    the    quality    of 

[5^] 


HALF-SMILES  AND  GESTURES 

De  Morgan.  Follett  said  that  with  Dickens  and 
De  Morgan  it  was  not  a  question  of  separate 
books,  singly  achieved,  but  a  mere  matter  of  cut- 
ting off  another  liberal  length  of  the  rich  person- 
ality which  was  Dickens  or  De  Morgan.  So, 
exactly,  it  seems  to  me  in  the  case  of  Holliday. 
A  new  book  of  Holliday's  essays  is  simply  another 
few  yards  of  a  personality  not  precisely  matched 
among  contemporary  American  essayists.  Holli- 
day's interests  are  somewhat  broader,  more 
human  and  perhaps  more  humane,  more  varied 
and  closer  to  the  normal  human  spirit  and  taste 
and  fancy  than  are  the  interests  of  essayists  like 
Samuel  Crothers  and  Agnes  Repplier. 

The  measure  of  Holliday  as  an  author  is  not,  of 
course,  bounded  by  these  collections  of  essays. 
There  is  his  penetrating  study  of  Booth  Tarking- 
ton  and  the  fine  collected  edition  of  Joyce  Kilmer, 
Joyce  Kilmer;  Poems^  Essays  and  Letters  With  a 
Memoir  by  Robert  Cortes  Holliday. 


IX 

A  gesture  can  be  very  graceful,  sometimes.  A 
half-smile  can  be  wistful  and  worth  remembering. 
That  was  a  pleasant  story,  almost  too  slender 
structurally  to  be  called  a  novel,  by  Gilbert  W. 
Gabriel,  published  in  the  spring  of  1922.  Jiminy 
is  a  tale  of  the  quest  of  the  perfect  love  story  by 
Benjamin  Benvenuto  and  Jiminy,  maker  of  small 
rhymes.     The  author,  music  critic  of  The  Sun, 

[53] 


WHEN  WINTER  COMES  TO  MAIN  STREET 

New  York,  had  long  been  known  as  a  newspaper 
writer  and  a  pinch  hitter  for  Don  Marquis,  con- 
ductor of  The  Sun's  famous  column.  The  Sun 
Dial,  when  Don  was  A.  W.  O.  L. 


[54] 


Chapter   III 

STEWART   EDWARD  WHITE  AND 
ADVENTURE 


STEWART  EDWARD  WHITE,"  says 
George  Gordon  in  his  book  The  Men  Who 
Make  Our  Novels,  "writes  out  of  a  vast  self-made 
experience,  draws  his  characters  from  a  wide 
acquaintance  with  men,  recalls  situations  and  in- 
cidents through  years  of  forest  tramping,  hunting, 
exploring  in  Africa  and  the  less  visited  places  of 
our  continent,  for  the  differing  occasions  of  his 
books.  In  his  boyhood  he  spent  a  great  part  of 
each  year  in  lumber  camps  and  on  the  river.  He 
first  found  print  with  a  series  of  articles  on  birds, 
'The  Birds  of  Mackinac  Island'  (he  was  born  in 
Grand  Rapids,  March  12,  1873),  brought  out  in 
pamphlet  form  by  the  Ornithologists'  Union  and 
since  (perforce)  referred  to  as  his  'first  book.'  In 
the  height  of  the  gold  rush  he  set  out  for  the  Black 
Hills,  to  return  East  broke  and  to  write  The  Claim 
Jumpers  and  The  Westerners.  He  followed 
Roosevelt  into  Africa,  The  Land  of  Footprints 
and  of  Simba.    He  has,  more  recently,  seen  serv- 

[55] 


WHEN  WINTER  COMES  TO  MAIN  STREET 

ice  in  France  as  a  Major  in  the  U.  S.  Field  A  cil- 
lery. Though  (certainly)  no  Ishmael,  he  has  for 
years  been  a  wanderer  upon  the  face  of  the  earth, 
observant  and  curious  of  the  arresting  and  strange 
— and  his  novels  and  short  stories  mark  a  journey 
such  as  but  few  have  gone  upon,  a  trailing  of  rain- 
bows, a  search  for  gold  beyond  the  further  hills 
and  a  finding  of  those  campfires  (left  behind  when 
Mr.  Kipling's  Explorer  crossed  the  ranges  beyond 
the  edge  of  cultivation)  round  which  the  resolute 
sit  to  swap  lies  while  the  tenderfoot  makes  a  fair 
— and  forced — pretence  at  belief." 

ii 

Spring,  1922,  having  advanced  to  that  stage 
where  one  could  feel  confidence  that  summer 
would  follow — a  confidence  one  cannot  always 
feel  in  March — a  short  letter  came  from  Mr. 
White.  He  enclosed  two  photographs.  One  of 
them  showed  a  trim-looking  man  with  eyeglasses 
and  moustache,  sitting  shirt-sleeved  in  a  frail- 
looking  craft.  The  letter  explained  that  this  was 
a  collapsible  canvas  boat.  My  deduction  was  that 
the  picture  had  been  taken  before  the  boat  col- 
lapsed. 

There  was  also  a  picture  of  another  and  much 
sturdier  boat.  I  think  the  name  Seattle  was 
painted  on  her  stern.  She  lay  on  a  calm  surface 
that  stretched  off  to  a  background  of  towering 
mountains — Lake  Louise  Inlet.     The  much  stur- 

[56] 


STEWART  EDWARD  WHITE 


[57] 


STEWART  EDWARD  WHITE 

dier  boat,  I  understood,  was  also  the  property  of 
S.  E.  White. 

The  letter  made  all  these  things  very  clear. 
It  said:  "Fifteen  tons,  fifty  feet,  sleeps  five, 
thirty-seven  horsepower,  heavy  duty  engine,  built 
sea-going,  speed  nine  knots.  No  phonograph  I 
No  wine  cellar. 

"We  are  going  north,  that  is  all  the  plans  we 
have.  We  two  are  all  there  are  on  board,  though 
we  are  thinking  of  getting  a  cat.  On  second 
thought,  here  is  the  crew  in  the  canvas  boat  we 
carry  to  the  inland  lakes  to  fish  from.  Her  name 
is  the  Wreckless;  be  careful  how  you  spell  it." 

As  stated,  the  crew  in  the  about-to-collapse 
boat  was  Stewart  Edward  White.  On  his  way 
north  it  was  his  intention  to  revise  what  will  be, 
in  his  judgment,  the  most  important  novel  he  has 
written.  But  I  must  not  say  anything  about  that 
yet.  Let  me  say  something,  rather,  about  his  new 
book  which  you  who  read  this  have  a  more  im- 
mediate prospect  of  enjoying.  On  Tiptoe:  A  Ro- 
mance of  the  Redwoods  is  Stewart  Edward  White 
in  a  somewhat  unusual  but  entirely  taking  role. 
Here  we  have  Mr.  White  writing  what  is  essen- 
tially a  comedy;  and  yet  there  is  an  element  of 
fantasy  in  the  story  which,  in  the  light  of  a  few 
opening  and  closing  paragraphs,  can  be  taken 
seriously,  too. 

The  story  sounds,  in  an  outline,  almost  baldly 
implausible.  Here  are  certain  people,  including 
a  young  woman,  the  daughter  of  a  captain  of  in- 

[59] 


WHEN  WINTER  COMES  TO  MAIN  STREET 

dustry,  stranded  in  the  redwoods.  Here  is  a 
young  man  out  of  nowhere,  who  foretells  the 
weather  in  a  way  that  is  uncannily  verified  soon 
afterward.  Here  also  is  the  astonishing  engine 
which  the  young  man  has  brought  with  him  out 
of  nowhere, — an  engine  likely  to  revolutionise 
the  affairs  of  the  world.  .  .  . 

I  suppose  that  the  secret  of  such  a  story  ^s  On 
Tiptoe  lies  entirely  in  the  telling.  I  know  that 
when  I  heard  it  outlined,  the  thing  seemed  to  me 
to  be  preposterous.  But  then,  while  still  under 
the  conviction  of  this  preposterousness,  the  story 
itself  came  to  my  hand  and  I  began  to  read.  Its 
preposterousness  did  not  worry  me  any  longer.  It 
had,  besides  a  plausibility  more  than  sufficient,  a 
narrative  charm  and  a  whimsical  humour  that 
would  have  justified  any  tale.  The  thing  that 
links  On  Tiptoe  with  Stewart  Edward  White  is 
the  perfect  picture  of  the  redwoods — the  feeling 
of  all  outdoors  you  get  while  under  the  spell  of  the 
story.  I  do  not  think  there  is  any  doubt  that  all 
lovers  of  White  will  enjoy  this  venture  into  the 
field  of  light  romance. 


Ill 

Stewart  Edward  White  was  the  son  of  T. 
Stewart  White  and  Mary  E.  (Daniell)  White. 
He  received  the  degree  of  bachelor  of  philosophy 
from  the  University  of  Michigan  in  1895  ^^^  ^^^ 
degree  of  master  of  arts  from  the  same  institution 

[60] 


STEWART  EDWARD  WHITE 

in  1903  {Who's  Who  in  America:  Volume  12). 
He  attended  Columbia  Law  School  in  1896-97. 
He  married  on  April  28,  1904,  Elizabeth  Grant 
of  Newport,  Rhode  Island.  He  was  a  major  with 
the  144th  Field  Artillery  in  1917-18.  He  lives  in 
California.  But  these  skeletal  details,  all  right 
for  Who's  Who  in  America^  serve  our  purpose 
poorly.  I  am  going  to  try  to  picture  the  man  from 
two  accounts  of  him  written  by  friends.  One 
appeared  as  an  appendix  to  White's  novel  Gold^ 
published  in  1913,  and  was  written  by  Eugene  F. 
Saxton.  The  other  is  a  short  newspaper  article 
by  John  Palmer  Gavit  (long  with  the  New  York 
Evening  Post)  printed  in  the  Philadelphia  Ledger 
for  May  20,  1922. 

Mr.  Saxton  had  a  talk  with  White  a  few  days 
before  White  sailed  from  New  York  for  his  sec- 
ond African  exploring  expedition.  Saxton  had 
asked  the  novelist  if  he  did  not  think  it  possible 
to  lay  hold  of  the  hearts  and  imaginations  of  a 
great  public  through  a  novel  which  had  no  love 
interest  in  it;  if  "man  pitted  against  nature  was 
not,  after  all,  the  eternal  drama." 

White  thought  for  a  moment  and  then  said : 
"In  the  main,  that  is  correct.  Only  I  should 
say  that  the  one  great  drama  is  that  of  the  indi- 
vidual man's  struggles  toward  perfect  adjustment 
with  his  environment.  According  as  he  comes 
into  correspondence  and  harmony  with  his  en- 
vironment, by  that  much  does  he  succeed.  That 
is  what  an  environment  is  for.     It  may  be  finan- 

[61] 


WHEN  WINTER  COMES  TO  MAIN  STREET 

cial,  natural,  sexual,  political,  and  so  on.  The 
sex  element  is  important,  of  course, — very  im- 
portant. But  it  is  not  the  only  element  by  any 
means;  nor  is  it  necessarily  an  element  that  exer- 
cises an  instant  influence  on  the  great  drama.  Any 
one  who  so  depicts  it  is  violating  the  truth.  Other 
elements  of  the  great  drama  are  as  important — 
self-preservation,  for  example,  is  a  very  simple 
and  even  more  important  instinct  than  that  of  the 
propagation  of  the  race.  Properly  presented, 
these  other  elements,  being  essentially  vital,  are 
of  as  much  interest  to  the  great  public  as  the  rela- 
tion of  the  sexes." 

The  first  eight  or  nine  years  of  Mr.  White's 
life  were  spent  in  a  small  mill  town.  Michigan 
was  at  that  time  the  greatest  of  lumber  states. 
White  was  still  a  boy  when  the  family  moved  to 
Grand  Rapids,  then  a  city  of  about  30,000. 
Stewart  Edward  White  did  not  go  to  school  until 
he  was  sixteen,  but  then  he  entered  the  third  year 
high  with  boys  of  his  own  age  and  was  graduated 
at  eighteen,  president  of  his  class.  He  won  and,  I 
believe,  still  holds  the  five-mile  rurming  record 
of  the  school. 

The  explanation  is  that  the  eight  or  ten  years 
which  most  boys  spend  in  grammar  school  were 
spent  by  Stewart  Edward  continually  in  the 
woods  and  among  the  rivermen,  in  his  own  town 
and  in  the  lumber  camps  to  which  his  father  took 
him.  Then  there  was  a  stretch  of  four  years,  from 
about  the  age  of  twelve  on,  when  he  was  in  Cali- 

[62] 


STEWART  EDWARD  WHITE 

fornia,  as  he  says  "a  very  new  sort  of  a  place." 
These  days  were  spent  largely  in  the  saddle  and 
he  saw  a  good  deal  of  the  old  California  ranch 
life. 

"The  Birds  of  Mackinac  Island,"  already  re- 
ferred to,  was  only  one  of  thirty  or  forty  papers 
on  birds  which  White  wrote  in  his  youth  for 
scientific  publications.  Six  or  seven  hundred 
skins  that  he  acquired  are  now  preserved  in  the 
Kent  Scientific  Museum  of  Grand  Rapids. 

His  summer  vacations  while  he  was  in  college 
were  spent  cruising  the  Great  Lakes  in  a  28-foot 
cutter  sloop.  After  graduating  he  spent  six 
months  in  a  packing-house  at  $6  a  week.  His 
adventure  in  the  Black  Hills  gold  rush  followed. 

It  was  during  his  studies  at  Columbia  that 
White  wrote,  as  part  of  his  class  work,  a  story 
called  "A  Man  and  His  Dog"  which  Brander 
Matthews  urged  him  to  try  to  sell.  Short  Stories 
brought  it  for  $  1 5  and  subsequent  stories  sold  also. 
One  brought  as  much  as  $35  I 

He  tried  working  in  McClurg's  bookstore  in 
Chicago  at  $9  a  week.  Then  he  set  out  for  Hud- 
son Bay.  The  Claim  Jumpers,  finished  about 
this  time,  was  brought  out  as  a  book  and  was  well 
received.  The  turn  of  the  tide  did  not  come  until 
Munsey  paid  $500  for  the  serial  right  in  The 
Westerners.  White  was  paid  in  five  dollar  bills 
and  he  says  that  when  he  stuifed  the  money  in  his 
pockets  he  left  at  once  for  fear  someone  would 
change  his  mind  and  want  all  that  money  back. 

[63] 


WHEN  WINTER  COMES  TO  MAIN  STREET 

The  Blazed  Trail  was  written  in  a  lumber  camp 
in  the  depth  of  a  northern  winter.  The  only 
hours  White  could  spare  for  writing  were  in  the 
early  morning,  so  he  would  begin  at  4  A.  M., 
and  write  until  8  A.  M.,  then  put  on  his  snow- 
shoes  and  go  out  for  a  day's  lumbering.  The  story 
finished,  he  gave  it  to  Jack  Boyd,  the  foreman,  to 
read.  Boyd  began  it  after  supper  one  evening  and 
when  White  awoke  the  next  morning  at  four 
o'clock  he  found  the  foreman  still  at  it.  As  Boyd 
never  even  read  a  newspaper.  White  regarded  this 
as  a  triumph.  This  is  the  book  that  an  English- 
woman, entering  a  book  shop  where  White  hap- 
pened to  be,  asked  for  in  these  words :  "Have  you 
a  copy  of  Blase  Tales?" 

White  went  out  hastily  in  order  not  to  overhear 
her  cries  of  disappointment. 


IV 


Mr.  Saxton  asked  White  why  he  went  to  Africa 
and  White  said : 

"My  answer  to  that  is  pretty  general.  I  went 
because  I  wanted  to.  A^o^i-  once  in  so  often  the 
wheels  get  rusty  and  I  have  to  get  up  and  do  some- 
thing real  or  else  blow  up.  Africa  seemed  to  me 
a  pretty  real  thing.  Before  I  went  I  read  at  least 
twenty  books  about  it  and  yet  I  got  no  mental 
image  of  what  I  was  going  to  see.  That  fact  ac- 
counts for  these  books  of  mine.     I  have  tried  to 

[64] 


STEWART  EDWARD  WHITE 

tell  in  plain  words  what  an  ordinary  person  would 
see  there. 

"Let  me  add,"  he  went  on,  "that  I  did  not  go 
for  material.  I  never  go  anywhere  for  material ; 
if  I  did  I  should  not  get  it.  That  attitude  of  mind 
would  give  me  merely  externals,  which  are  not 
worth  writing  about.  I  go  places  merely  because, 
for  one  reason  or  another,  they  attract  me.  Then, 
if  it  happens  that  I  get  close  enough  to  the  life, 
I  may  later  find  that  I  have  something  to  write 
about.  A  man  rarely  writes  anything  convincing 
unless  he  has  lived  the  life;  not  with  his  critical 
faculty  alert;  but  whole-heartedly  and  because, 
for  the  time  being,  it  is  his  life." 


John  Palmer  Gavit  tells  how  once,  when  hunt- 
ing, White  broke  his  leg  and  had  to  drag  himself 
back  long  miles  to  camp  alone: 

"Adventure  enough,  you'd  say.  But  along  the 
way  a  partridge  drummed  and  nothing  would  do 
but  he  must  digress  a  hundred  yards  from  the 
shorter  and  sufficiently  painful  way,  brace  him- 
self for  the  shot  and  recoil,  kill  the  bird  and  have 
his  dog  retrieve  it,  and  bring  his  game  along  with 
him.  Just  to  show  himself  that  this  impossible 
thing  could  be  done. 

"I  am  not  imagining  when  I  say  that  in  this 
same  spirit  Stewart  Edward  White  faces  the 
deeper  problems  and  speculations  of  life.     He 

[65] 


WHEN  WINTER  COMES  TO  MAIN  STREET 

wants  to  know  about  things  here  and  hereafter. 
With  the  same  zest  and  simplicity  of  motive  he 
faces  the  secret  doors  of  existence;  not  to  prove 
or  disprove,  but  to  see  and  find  out.  And  when 
he  comes  to  the  Last  Door  he  will  go  through  with- 
out fear,  with  eyes  open  to  see  in  the  next  undis- 
covered country  what  there  is  to  be  seen  and  to 
show  that  the  heart  of  a  brave  and  unshrinking 
man,  truthful  and  open-handed  and  friendly,  is 
at  home  there,  as  he  may  be  anywhere  under  God's 
jurisdiction." 

Books 
by  Stewart  Edward  White 

the  westerners 
the  claim  jumpers 
the  blazed  trail 
conjuror's  house 
the   forest 
the   magic   forest 
the  silent  places 
the   mountain 
blazed  trail  stories 

THE    PASS 

THE   MYSTERY  (With  Samucl  Hopkins  Adams) 

ARIZONA    NIGHTS 

CAMP    AND    TRAIL 

THE    RIVERMAN 

THE    RULES    OF    THE    GAME 

THE    CABIN 

[66] 


STEWART  EDWARD  WHITE 

THE    ADVENTURES    OF    BOBBY    ORDE 

THE    LAND    OF    FOOTPRINTS 

AFRICAN    CAMP    FIRES 

GOLD 

THE    REDISCOVERED    COUNTRY 

THE    GREY    DAWN 

THE    LEOPARD    WOMAN 

SIMBA 

THE  FORTY-NINERS  (III The  Chroniclcs  of  America 
Series) 

THE    ROSE    DAWN 

THE    KILLER,    AND    OTHER    STORIES 

ON  tiptoe:  a   ROMANCE  OF  THE  REDWOODS 

Sources 
on  Stewart  Edward  White 

The  Men  Who  Make  our  Novels,  by  George 
Gordon,     moffat,  yard  &  company. 

Who's  Who  in  America. 

Stewart  Edward  White:  Appendix  to  gold  (pub- 
lished in  1913)  by  Eugene  F.  Saxton. 
doubleday,  page  &  company. 

Stewart  Edward  White,  by  John  Palmer  Gavit. 

PHILADELPHIA     PUBLIC      LEDGER,     May     20, 
1922. 


[67] 


Chapter  IV 
WHERE  THE  PLOT  THICKENS 


SCARCELY  anyone  is  there,  now  writing 
mystery  stories,  who,  with  the  combination 
of  ingenuity — or  perhaps  I  should  say  originality 
— dependableness,  and  a  sufficient  atmosphere 
comes  up  to  the  high  and  steady  level  of  Frank  L. 
Packard.  Born  in  Montreal  in  1877  ^^  American 
parents,  a  graduate  of  McGill  University  and  a 
student  of  Liege,  Belgium,  Mr.  Packard  was  en- 
gaged in  engineering  work  for  some  years  and  be- 
gan writing  for  a  number  of  magazines  in  1906. 
He  now  lives  at  Lachine,  Province  of  Quebec, 
Canada,  and  the  roll  of  his  books  is  a  considerable 
one.  In  that  roll,  there  are  titles  known  and  en- 
thusiastically remembered  by  nearly  every  reader 
of  the  mystery  tale.  Is  there  anyone  who  has  not 
heard  of  The  Miracle  Man  or  The  Wire  Devils  or 
Jimmie  Dale  in  The  Adventures  of  Jifnmie  Dale 
and  The  Further  Adventures  of  Jimmie  Dale? 
The  Night  Operator,  From  Now  On,  Pawned, 
and,  most  recently.  Doors  of  the  Night  have  had 
their  public  ready  and  waiting.    That  same  public 

[68] 


WHERE  THE  PLOT  THICKENS 

will  denude  the  book  counters  of  Jimmie  Dale 
and  The  Phantom  Clue  this  autumn. 

Packard  differs  from  his  fellow-writers  of  mys- 
tery stories  in  his  flair  for  the  unusual  idea.  In 
Pawned  each  character  finds  himself  in  pawn  to 
another,  and  must  act  as  someone  else  dictates. 
Doors  of  the  Night  is  the  account  of  a  man  who 
was  both  a  notorious  leader  and  hunted  prey  of 
New  York's  underworld.  From  Now  On  is  the 
unexpected  story  of  a  man  after  he  comes  out  of 
prison ;  and  Jimmie  Dale,  Fifth  Avenue  clubman, 
was,  to  Clancy,  Smarlinghue  the  dope  fiend;  to 
the  gang,  Larry  the  Bat,  stool  pigeon;  but  to 
Headquarters — the  Grey  Seal  I 

Stories  of  the  underworld  are  among  the  most 
difficult  to  write.  The  thing  had,  it  seemed,  been 
done  to  death  and  underdone  and  overdone  when 
Packard  came  along.  In  all  seriousness,  it  may 
be  said  that  Packard  has  restored  the  underworld 
to  respectability — as  a  domain  for  fictional  pur- 
poses at  least !  It  is  not  that  his  crooks  are  real 
crooks — though  they  are — but  that  he  is  able  to 
put  life  into  them,  to  make  them  seem  human. 
No  man  is  a  hero  to  his  valet  and  no  crook  can  be 
merely  a  crook  in  a  story  of  the  underworld  that  is 
intended  to  convey  any  sense  of  actuality.  Beside 
the  distortions  and  conventionalisations  of  most 
underworld  stories,  Packard's  novels  stand  out 
with  distinctiveness  and  a  persistent  vitality. 


[69] 


WHEN  WINTER  COMES  TO  MAIN  STREET 

ii 

When  a  book  called  Bulldog  Drummond  was 
published  there  was  no  one  prescient  of  the  great 
success  of  the  play  which  would  be  made  from 
the  story.  But  those  who  read  mystery  stories 
habitually  knew  well  that  a  mystery-builder  of 
exceptional  adroitness  had  arrived.  Of  course, 
Cyril  McNeile,  under  the  pen  name  "Sapper," 
was  already  somewhat  known  in  America  by  sev- 
eral war  books;  but  Bulldog  Drummond  was  a 
novelty.  Apparently  it  was  possible  to  write  a 
first  rate  detective-mystery  story  with  touches  of 
crisp  humour  as  good  as  Pelham  Grenville  Wode- 
house's  stuff  I  There  is  something  convincing 
about  the  hero  of  Bulldog  Drummond,  the  brisk 
and  cheerful  young  man  whom  demobilisation  has 
left  unemployed  and  whose  perfectly  natural  sus- 
ceptibility to  the  attractiveness  of  a  young  woman 
leads  him  into  adventures  as  desperate  as  any  in 
No  Man's  Land. 

For  Cyril  McNeile's  new  story  The  Black 
Gang,  after  the  experience  of  Bulldog  Drummond 
as  a  book  and  play,  Americans  will  be  better  pre- 
pared. An  intermediate  book,  The  Man  in  Rat- 
catcher, consists  of  shorter  stories  which  exhibit 
very  perfectly  McNeile's  gift  for  the  dramatic 
situation.  He  gives  us  the  man  who  returned 
from  the  dead  to  save  his  sweetheart  from  de- 
struction ;  the  man  who  staked  his  happiness  on  a 
half  forgotten  waltz ;  the  man  who  played  at  cards 

[70] 


WHERE  THE  PLOT  THICKENS 

for  his  wife;  the  man  who  assisted  at  suicide. 
Neither  ordinary  short  stories  nor  ordinary- 
motifs!  I  should  hesitate  to  predict  how  far 
McNeile  will  go  along  this  special  line  of  his; 
but  I  see  no  reason  why  he  should  not  give  us  the 
successor  of  Sherlock  Holmes. 


Ill 

Black  Cdzsars  Clan  is  the  good  title  of  Albert 
Payson  Terhune's  new  story  in  succession  to  his 
Black  Gold^  a  mystery  story  that  was  distin- 
guished by  the  possession  of  a  Foreword  so  un- 
usual as  to  be  worth  reprinting — one  of  the  best 
arguments  for  this  type  of  book  ever  penned : 

"If  you  are  questing  for  character-study  or  for 
realism  or  for  true  literature  in  any  of  its  forms, — 
then  walk  around  this  book  of  mine  (and,  indeed, 
any  book  of  mine)  ;  for  it  was  not  written  for  you 
and  it  will  have  no  appeal  for  you. 

"But  if  you  care  for  a  yarn  with  lots  of  action, 
— some  of  it  pretty  exciting, — you  may  like  Black 
Gold.    I  think  you  will. 

"It  has  all  the  grand  old  tricks:  from  the 
Weirdly  Vanishing  Footprints,  to  the  venerable 
Ride  for  Life.  Yes,  and  it  embalms  even  the  half- 
forgotten  and  long-disused  Struggle  on  the  Cliff. 
Its  Hero  is  a  hero.  Its  Villain  is  a  villain.  No- 
body could  possibly  mistake  either  of  them  for  the 
Friend  of  the  Family.  The  Heroine  is  just  a 
heroine;  not  a  human.     There  is  not  a  subtle 

[71] 


WHEN  WINTER  COMES  TO  MAIN  STREET 

phrase  or  a  disturbingly  new  thought,  from  start 
to  finish. 

"There  is  a  good  mystery,  too;  along  lines 
which  have  not  been  worked  over-often.  And 
there  is  a  glimpse  of  Untold  Treasure.  What  bet- 
ter can  you  ask;  in  a  story  that  is  frank  melo- 
drama*? 

"The  scene,  by  the  way,  is  laid  in  Northern 
California;  a  beautiful  and  strikingly  individual- 
istic region  which,  for  the  most  part,  is  ignored 
by  tourists  for  the  man-made  scenic  effects  and 
playgrounds  of  the  southern  counties  of  the 
State. 

"If,  now  and  again,  my  puppets  or  my  plot- 
wires  creak  a  bit  noisily, — what  then?  Creaking, 
at  worst,  is  a  sure  indication  of  movement, — of 
action, — of  incessant  progress  of  sorts.  A  thing 
that  creaks  is  not  standing  still  and  gathering 
mildew.  It  moves.  Otherwise  it  could  not 
creak. 

"Yes,  there  are  worse  faults  to  a  plot  than  an 
occasional  tendency  to  creakiness.  It  means,  for 
one  thing,  that  numberless  skippable  pages  are  not 
consumed  in  photographic  description  of  the  ill- 
assorted  furnishings  of  the  heroine's  room  or 
cosmos;  nor  in  setting  forth  the  myriad  phases  of 
thought  undergone  by  the  hero  in  seeking  to  check 
the  sway  of  his  pet  complexes.  (This  drearily 
flippant  slur  on  realism  springs  from  pure  envy. 
I  should  rejoice  to  write  such  a  book.  But  I 
can't.    And,  if  I  could,  I  know  I  should  never  be 

[72] 


WHERE  THE  PLOT  THICKENS 

able  to  stay  awake  long  enough  to  correct  its 
proofs.) 

"Yet,  there  is  something  to  be  said  in  behalf 
of  the  man  or  woman  who  finds  guilty  joy  in 
reading  a  story  whose  action  gallops;  a  story 
whose  runaway  pace  breaks  its  stride  only  to  leap 
a  chasm  or  for  a  breathcatching  stumble  on  a 
precipice-edge.  The  office  boy  prefers  Captain 
Kidd  to  Strindberg;  not  because  he  is  a  boy,  but 
because  he  is  human  and  has  not  yet  learned  the 
trick  of  disingenuousness.  He  is  still  normal. 
So  is  the  average  grown-up. 

"These  normal  and  excitement-loving  readers 
are  overwhelmingly  in  the  majority.  Witness  the 
fact  that  The  Bat  had  a  longer  run  in  New  York 
than  have  all  of  Dunsany's  and  Yeats's  rare 
dramas,  put  together.  If  we  insist  that  our  coun- 
try be  guided  by  majority- rule,  then  why  sneer  at 
a  majority- report  in  literary  tastes'? 

"Ben  Hur  was  branded  as  a  'religious  dime 
novel.'  Yet  it  has  had  fifty  times  the  general 
vogue  of  Anatole  France's  pseudo-blasphemy 
which  deals  with  the  same  period.  Public  taste 
is  not  always,  necessarily,  bad  taste.  'The  com- 
mon people  heard  Him,  gladly.'  (The  Scribes  did 
not.) 

"After  all,  there  is  nothing  especially  debasing 
in  a  taste  for  yarns  which  drip  with  mystery  and 
suspense  and  ceaseless  action;  even  if  the  style 
and  concept  of  these  yarns  be  grossly  lacking  in 
certain  approved  elements.    So  the  tale  be  written 

[73] 


WHEN  WINTER  COMES  TO  MAIN  STREET 

with  strong  evidence  of  sincerity  and  with  a  dash 
of  enthusiasm,  why  grudge  it  a  small  place  of  its 
own  in  readers'  hours  of  mental  laziness  *? 

"With  this  shambling  apology, — which,  really, 
is  no  apology  at  all, — I  lay  my  book  on  your 
knees.  You  may  like  it  or  you  may  not.  You 
will  find  it  alive  with  flaws.     But,  it  is  alive. 

"I  don't  think  it  will  bore  you.  Perhaps  there 
are  worse  recommendations." 


IV 

Hulbert  Footner  does  not  look  like  a  writer  of 
mystery  stories.  A  tall,  handsome,  well-dressed, 
extremely  courteous  gentleman  who,  had  he  the 
requisite  accent,  might  just  have  arrived  from 
Bond  Street.  He  has  a  trim  moustache.  Awfully 
attractive  blue  eyes!  He  lives  on  a  farm  at 
Sollers,  Maryland.  No  one  else,  it  seems,  is  so 
familiar  with  the  unusual  corners  of  New  York 
City,  the  sort  of  places  that  get  themselves  called 
"quaint."  No  one  else  manages  the  affairs  of 
young  lovers  (on  paper)  with  quite  so  much  of 
the  airy  spirit  of  young  love.  I  can  think  of  no 
one  else  who  could  write  such  a  scene  as  that  in 
The  Owl  Taxi,  where  the  dead-wagon,  on  its  way 
in  the  night  to  the  vast  cemetery  in  a  New  York 
suburb,  is  held  up  for  the  removal  of  a  much- 
needed  corpse.  Such  material  is  bizarre.  The 
handling  of  it  must  be  very  deft  or  the  result 
will  be  revolting;  and  yet  the  thing  can  be  done. 

[74] 


WHERE  THE  PLOT  THICKENS 

In  the  latter  part  of  that  excellent  play,  Seven 
Keys  to  Baldpate^  George  M.  Cohan  and  his 
company  bandied  a  corpse  from  attic  to  cellar  of 
a  country  house.  This  preposterous  scene  as  pre- 
sented on  the  stage  was  helplessly  laughable.  Mr. 
Footner's  scene  in  The  Owl  Taxi  is  like  that. 

The  man  has  a  special  gift  for  the  picturesque 
person.  I  do  not  know  whether  he  uses  originals ; 
if  I  suspect  an  original  for  old  Simon  Deaves  in 
The  Deaves  Affair,  I  get  no  farther  than  a  faint 
suspicion  that  .  .  .  No,  I  cannot  identify  his 
character.  (Not  that  I  want  to;  I  am  not  a  victim 
of  that  fatal  obsession  which  fastens  itself  upon 
so  many  readers  of  fiction — the  desire  to  identify 
the  characters  in  a  story  with  someone  in  real  life. 
The  idea  is  ridiculous.)  Mr.  Footner  knows 
Greenwich  Village.  He  knows  outlying  stretches 
in  the  greater  city  of  New  York ;  he  knows  excur- 
sion boats  such  as  the  Ernestina,  whose  cruises 
play  so  curious  a  part  in  The  Deaves  Affair.  I 
have  a  whetted  appetite  for  what  Footner  will 
give  us  next;  I  feel  sure  it  will  be  like  no  other 
story  of  the  season.    A  great  deal  to  be  sure  of  I 


The  peculiarity  about  Gold-Killer  is  the  mys- 
tery behind  the  excellent  mystery  of  the  book.  I 
mean,  of  course,  the  mystery  of  its  authorship.  I 
do  not  any  longer  believe  that  the  book  is  the  work 
of  Siamese  twins — in  a  physiological  sense  of  the 


WHEN  WINTER  COMES  TO  MAIN  STREET 

word  "twins."  I  know  that  there  is  no  John  Pros- 
per— or,  rather,  that  if  there  is  a  John  Prosper,  he 
is  not  the  author  of  Gold-Killer.  Yet  the  book 
was  the  work  of  more  than  one  man.  Were  two 
intellects  siamesed  to  write  the  story?  Those 
who,  in  my  opinion,  know  the  facts  point  to  the 
name  on  the  title  page  and  say  that  John  is  John 
and  Prosper  is  Prosper  and  never  the  twain  shall 
meet,  unless  for  the  purpose  of  evolving  a  super- 
Gold-Kzller.  Whether  they  will  be  able  to  sur- 
pass this  book,  which  opens  with  a  murder  at  the 
opera  and  finishes  (practically)  with  a  nose  dive 
in  an  airplane,  is  beyond  my  surmise. 

If  they  will  try,  I  give  them  my  word  I  will  read 
the  new  yarn. 

Mrs.  Baillie  Reynolds's  latest  novel  is  called 
The  Judgment  of  Charts.  It  is  not  a  story  to  tell 
too  much  about  in  advance.  I  will  say  that 
Charis  had  run  away  from  an  all-too-persistent 
lover  and  an  all-too-gorgeous  family,  and  had 
been  taken  under  the  wing  of  a  kindly,  middle- 
aged  millionaire  and  invited  to  become  his  secre- 
tary. She  expected  some  complications  and  in  her 
expectations  she  was  not  disappointed;  and  the 
readers'  expectations  will  not  be  disappointed 
either,  though  they  may  find  the  ending  unex- 
pected. 

The  Vanishing  of  Betty  Varian  restored  to 
readers  of  Carolyn  Wells  a  detective  whose  ap- 
pearance in  The  Room  with  the  Tassels  made  that 
story  more  than  ordinarily  worth  while.    I  do  not 

[76] 


WHERE  THE  PLOT  THICKENS 

know,  though,  whether  Penny  Wise  would  be  in- 
teresting or  even  notable  if  it  were  not  for  his 
curious  assistant,  Zizi.  The  merit  of  detective 
stories  is  necessarily  variable;  The  Vanishing  of 
Betty  Varian  is  one  of  the  author's  best;  but  Miss 
Wells  (really  Mrs.  Hadwin  Houghton)  is,  to  me, 
as  extraordinary  as  her  stories.  All  those  books ! 
She  herself  says  that  "having  mastered  the  psy- 
chology of  detachment"  she  can  write  with  more 
concentration  and  less  revision  than  any  other  pro- 
fessional writer  of  her  acquaintance.     Yes,  but 

how No  doubt  it  is  too  much  to  expect  her 

to  explain  how  she  is  ingenious. 

Mrs.  Belloc  Lowndes,  sister  of  Hilaire  Belloc, 
is  ingenious  in  a  different  direction.  Her  story 
of  What  Timmy  Did  was  one  that  attracted  espe- 
cial attention  from  those  periodicals  and  persons 
interested  in  psychic  matters.  Here  was  a  woman 
whose  husband  had  died  from  poison — self-admin- 
istered, the  coroner  decided — and  here  was  little 
Timmy,  who  knew  that  something  was  wrong. 
Animals  also  knew  it;  and  then  one  day  Timmy 
saw  at  her  heels  a  shadow  man,  stiff  and  military, 
and  behind  him  a  phantom  dog.  Mrs.  Lowndes's 
gifts,  different  from  her  distinguished  brother's, 
are  none  the  less  gifts. 


[77] 


Chapter  V 
REBECCA  WEST:  AN  ARTIST 


WHETHER  Rebecca  West  is  writing  re- 
views of  books  or  dramatic  criticism  or 
novels  she  is  an  artist,  above  everything.  I  have 
been  reading  delightedly  the  pages  of  her  new 
novel,  The  Judge.  It  is  Miss  West's  second  novel. 
One  is  somewhat  prepared  for  it  by  the  excellence 
of  her  first,  The  Return  of  the  Soldier^  published 
in  1918.    Somewhat,  but  not  adequately. 

Perhaps  I  am  prejudiced.  You  see,  I  have  been 
in  Edinburgh,  and  though  it  was  the  worst  season 
of  the  year — the  period  when,  as  Robert  Louis 
Stevenson  says,  that  Northern  city  has  "the  vilest 
climate  under  Heaven" — nevertheless,  the  charm 
and  dignity  of  that  old  town  captured  me  at  the 
very  moment  when  a  penetrating  Scotch  winter 
rain  was  coming  in  direct  contact  with  my  bones. 
I  was,  I  might  as  well  confess,  soaked  and  chilled 
as  no  New  York  winter  snowstorm  ever  wetted 
and  chilled  me.  It  did  not  matter;  here  was  the 
long  sweep  of  Princes  Street  with  its  gay  shops  on 
one  side  and  its  deep  valley  on  the  other;  across 

[78] 


REBECCA  WEST 


[79] 


REBECCA  WEST:  AN  ARTIST 

the  valley  the  tenements  of  the  Royal  Mile  lifted 
themselves  up — the  Royal  Mile,  which  runs  al- 
ways uphill  from  the  Palace  that  is  Holyrood  to 
the  height  that  is  the  Castle.  Talk  about  ges- 
tures I  The  whole  city  of  Edinburgh  is  a  match- 
less gesture. 

And  so,  when  I  began  the  first  page  of  The 
Judge,  it  was  a  grand  delight  to  find  myself  back 
in  the  city  of  the  East  Wind : 

"It  was  not  because  life  was  not  good  enough 
that  Ellen  Melville  was  crying  as  she  sat  by  the 
window.  The  world,  indeed,  even  so  much  of  it 
as  could  be  seen  from  her  window,  was  extrava- 
gantly beautiful.  The  office  of  Mr.  Mactavish 
James,  Writer  to  the  Signet,  was  in  one  of  those 
decent  grey  streets  that  lie  high  on  the  Northward 
slope  of  Edinburgh  New  Town,  and  Ellen  was 
looking  up  the  sidestreet  that  opened  just  opposite 
and  revealed,  menacing  as  the  rattle  of  spears, 
the  black  rock  and  bastions  of  the  Castle  against 
the  white  beamless  glare  of  the  southern  sky. 
And  it  was  the  hour  of  the  clear  Edinburgh  twi- 
light, that  strange  time  when  the  world  seems  to 
have  forgotten  the  sun  though  it  keeps  its  colour ; 
it  could  still  be  seen  that  the  moss  between  the 
cobblestones  was  a  wet  bright  green,  and  that  a 
red  autumn  had  been  busy  with  the  wind-nipped 
trees,  yet  these  things  were  not  gay,  but  cold  and 
remote  as  brightness  might  be  on  the  bed  of  a 
deep  stream,  fathoms  beneath  the  visitation  of  the 
sun.    At  this  time  all  the  town  was  ghostly,  and 

[81] 


WHEN  WINTER  COMES  TO  MAIN  STREET 

she  loved  it  so.  She  took  her  mind  by  the  arm 
and  marched  it  up  and  down  among  the  sights  of 
Edinburgh,  telling  it  that  to  be  weeping  with  dis- 
content in  such  a  place  was  a  scandalous  turning 
up  of  the  nose  at  good  mercies.  Now  the  Castle 
Esplanade,  that  all  day  had  proudly  supported 
the  harsh  virile  sounds  and  colours  of  the  drilling 
regiments,  would  show  to  the  slums  its  blank  sur- 
face, bleached  bonewhite  by  the  winds  that  raced 
above  the  city  smoke.  Now  the  Cowgate  and  the 
Canongate  would  be  given  over  to  the  drama  of 
the  disorderly  night,  the  slumdwellers  would  fore- 
gather about  the  rotting  doors  of  dead  men's  man- 
sions and  brawl  among  the  not  less  brawling 
ghosts  of  a  past  that  here  never  speaks  of  peace, 
but  only  of  blood  and  argument.  And  Holyrood, 
under  a  black  bank  surmounted  by  a  low  bitten 
cliff,  would  lie  like  the  camp  of  an  invading  and 
terrified  army.  .  .  ." 

11 

The  Judge  is  certainly  autobiographical  in 
some  of  the  material  employed.  For  instance,  it 
is  a  fact  that  Miss  West  went  to  school  in  Edin- 
burgh, attending  an  institution  not  unlike  John 
Thompson's  Ladies  College  referred  to  in  The 
Judge  (but  only  referred  to).  It  is  a  fact,  as  every- 
one who  knows  anything  about  Miss  West  knows, 
that  Miss  West  was  an  ardent  suffragette  in  that 
time  before  suffragettes  had  ceased  from  troubling 

[82] 


REBECCA  WEST:  AN  ARTIST 

and  Prime  Ministers  were  at  rest.  An  amazing 
legend  got  about  some  time  ago  that  Rebecca 
West's  real  name  was  Regina  Miriam  Bloch. 
Then  on  the  strength  of  the  erring  annual  Index 
to  Periodical  Publications  did  Miss  Amy  Well- 
ington write  a  sprightly  article  for  the  Literary 
Review  of  the  New  York  Evening  Post.  Miss 
Wellington  referred  to  this  mysterious  Regina 
Miriam  Bloch  who  had  stunned  everybody  by  her 
early  articles  written  under  the  name  of  one  of 
Ibsen's  most  formidable  heroines;  but  unfortun- 
ately Miss  West  wrote  a  letter  in  disclaimer.  She 
cannot  help  Mr.  Ibsen.  It  may  be  a  collision  in 
names,  but  it  is  not  a  collusion.  The  truth  about 
Rebecca  West,  who  has  written  The  Judge,  seems 
to  be  dependably  derivable  from  the  English 
Who's  Who,  a  standard  work  always  worth  con- 
sulting. This  estimable  authority  says  that  Re- 
becca West  was  born  on  Christmas  in  1892,  and 
is  the  youngest  daughter  of  the  late  Charles  Fair- 
field of  County  Kerry.  It  further  says  that  she 
was  educated  at  George  Watson's  Ladies'  College, 
Edinburgh.  It  states  that  she  joined  the  staff  of 
The  Free  woman  as  a  reviewer  in  1911.  Her  club 
is  the  International  Women's  Franchise.  Her 
residence  is  36  Queen's  Gate  Terrace,  London 
S.  W.  7.    Her  telephone  is  Kensington  7285. 

Now  is  there  anything  mythical  left?  What 
excuse,  O  everybody,  is  there  any  longer  for  the 
legend  of  Regina  Miriam  Bloch? 

But  I  do  not  believe  Miss  West  objects  to  leg- 

[83] 


WHEN  WINTER  COMES  TO  MAIN  STREET 

ends.  I  imagine  she  loves  them.  The  legend  of 
a  name  is  perhaps  unimportant;  the  legend  of  a 
personality  is  of  the  highest  importance.  That 
Miss  West  has  a  personality  is  evident  to  anyone 
familiar  with  her  work.  A  personality,  however, 
is  not  three-dimensionally  revealed  except  in  that 
form  of  work  which  comes  closest  to  the  heart  and 
life  of  the  worker.  To  write  pungent  and  terri- 
fyingly  sane  criticisms  is  a  notable  thing;  but  to 
write  novels  of  tender  insight  and  intimate  revela- 
tion is  a  far  more  convincing  thing.  The  Judge  is 
such  a  novel. 


Ill 

There  is  a  prefatory  sentence,  as  follows: 
"Every  mother  is  a  Judge  who  sentences  the 
children  for  the  sins  of  the  father." 
There  is  a  dedication.    It  is: 


TO  THE  MEMORY  OF  MY  MOTHER 

The  Judge  is  a  study  of  the  claim  of  a  mother 
upon  her  son.  The  circumstances  of  Mrs.  Yaver- 
land's  life  were  such  as  peculiarly  to  strengthen 
the  tie  between  her  and  Richard.  On  the  other 
hand,  she  had  always  disliked  and  even  hated 
her  son  Roger. 

The  first  part  of  the  book,  however,  does  not 
bring  in  Richard  Yaverland's  mother.  It  is  a  pic- 
ture of  Ellen  Melville,  the  girl  in  Edinburgh,  the 

[84] 


REBECCA  WEST:  AN  ARTIST 

girl  whose  craving  for  the  colour  of  existence  has 
gone  unsatisfied  until  Richard  Yaverland  enters 
her  life.  Yaverland,  with  his  stories  of  Spain, 
and  his  imaginative  appeal  for  that  young  girl, 
is  the  fulcrum  of  Ellen  Melville's  destiny. 

That  destiny,  carried  by  the  forces  of  human 
character  to  its  strange  termination,  is  handled  by 
Miss  West  in  a  long  novel  the  chapters  of  which 
are  a  series  of  delineative  emotions.  I  do  not 
mean  that  Miss  West  shrinks  from  externalised 
action,  as  did  Henry  James  whom  she  has  ad- 
mired and  studied.  She  perceives  the  immense 
value  of  introspection,  but  is  not  lost  in  its  quick- 
sands. She  can  devote  a  whole  chapter  to  a  train 
of  thought  in  the  mind  of  Ellen  Melville,  sitting 
inattentively  at  a  public  meeting;  and  she  can 
follow  it  with  another  long  chapter  giving  the  se- 
quence of  thoughts  in  the  mind  of  Richard  Yaver- 
land ;  and  she  can  bring  each  chapter  to  a  period 
with  the  words:  "She  (he)  glanced  across  the 
hall.  Their  eyes  met."  It  might  be  thought  that 
this  constitutes  a  waste  of  narrative  space;  not  so. 
As  a  matter  of  fact,  without  the  insight  accorded 
by  these  disclosures  of  things  thought  and  felt, 
we  should  be  unable  to  understand  the  behaviour 
of  these  two  young  people. 

All  the  first  half  of  the  book  is  a  truly  marvel- 
ous story  of  young  lovers;  all  the  latter  end  of  the 
book  is  a  relation  scarcely  paralleled  in  fiction  of 
the  conflict  between  the  mother's  claim  and  the 
claim  of  the  younger  woman. 

[85] 


WHEN  WINTER  COMES  TO  MAIN  STREET 

Of  subsidiary  portraits  there  are  plenty.  El- 
len's mother  and  Mr.  Mactavish  James  and  Mr. 
Philip  James  are  like  full-lengths  by  Velasquez. 
In  the  closing  chapters  of  the  book  we  have  the 
extraordinary  figure  of  the  brother  and  son,  Roger, 
accompanied  by  the  depressing  girl  whom  he  has 
picked  up  the  Lord  knows  where. 

And,  after  all,  this  is  not  a  first  novel — that 
promise,  which  so  often  fails  of  fulfilment — but  a 
second  novel ;  and  I  have  in  many  a  day  not  read 
anything  that  seemed  to  me  to  get  deeper  into  the 
secrets  of  life  than  this  study  of  a  man  who,  at  the 
last,  spoke  triumphantly,  "as  if  he  had  found  a 
hidden  staircase  out  of  destiny,"  and  a  woman 
who,  at  the  last,  "knew  that  though  life  at  its 
beginning  was  lovely  as  a  corn  of  wheat  it  was 
ground  down  to  flour  that  must  make  bitter  bread 
between  two  human  tendencies,  the  insane  sexual 
caprice  of  men,  the  not  less  mad  excessive  stead- 
fastness of  women." 

Books 
by  Rebecca  West 

THE   RETURN   OF  THE  SOLDIER 
THE   JUDGE 


[86] 


REBECCA  WEST:  AN  ARTIST 

Sources 

on  Rebecca  West 

Who's  Who.     [In  England]. 

Rebecca  West:  Article  by  Amy  Wellington  in  the 

LITERARY    REVIEW    OF    THE    NEW    YORK    EVE- 
NING   POST,    1921. 

Articles  by  Rebecca  West  in  various  English  pub- 
lications, frequently  reprinted  by  the  living 
AGE.  See  the  annual  index  to  American 
periodical  publications. 


[87] 


Chapter   VI 
SHAMELESS  FUN 


ONE  way  to  write  about  Nina  Wilcox 
Putnam  would  be  in  the  way  she  writes 
about  everything.    It's  not  so  hard.    As  thus: 

Some  dull  day  in  the  office.  We  look  up  and 
whom  should  we  see  standing  right  there  before 
us  but  Nina  Wilcox  Putnam  I  Falling  over  back- 
wards, that  being  what  our  swivel  chair  is  made 
for,  we  say:  "Well,  well,  well!  So  today  is 
May  3,  1922  I    Where  from^    West  Broadway*?" 

"I  should  not  say  sol  South  Broadway,  I 
guess.  I've  just  motored  up  from  Florida.  But 
your  speaking  of  West  Broadway  reminds  me: 
I've  written  a  piece  for  George  Lorimer  of  Sat- 
urday Evening  Post.  You  see  my  book,  West 
Broadway,  brought  me  so  many  letters  my  arm 
ached  from  answering  them.  What  car  did  you 
drive?  Where  d'y'  get  gas  in  the  desert?  What's 
the  best  route?  And  thus  et  cetera.  So  now  I 
have  wrote  me  a  slender  essay  answering  every- 
thing that  anybody  can  ask  on  this  or  other  trans' 
continental  subjects.     Mr.  Lorimer  will  publish, 

[88] 


SHAMELESS  FUN 

and  who  knows — as  they  say  in  fiction — it  might 
make  a  book  afterward." 

"How's  Florida'?" 

"I  left  it  fine,  if  it  doesn't  get  in  trouble  while 
Fm  away.  Fve  bought  a  ranch,  for  fruit  only,  on 
the  East  Coast,  between  Palm  Beach  and  Miami, 
but  not  paying  these  expensive  prices,  no,  not 
never.  And  I  shall  live  there  for  better  but  not 
for  worse,  for  richer,  but  most  positively  not  for 
poorer.  I  pick  my  own  alligator  pears  off  my  own 
tree  unless  I  want  to  sell  them  for  fifteen  cents 
on  the  tree.  Bathing,  one-half  mile  east  by 
motor." 

"Been  reading  your  piece,  'How  I  Have  Got  So 
Far  So  Good,'  in  John  Siddall's  American  Maga- 
zine." 

"Yes,  I  thought  I  would  join  the  autobiogra- 
phists — Benvenuto  Cellini,  Margot  Asquith, 
Benjamin  Franklin,  et  Al,  as  Ring  Lardner  would 
insist.  Do  you  know  Ring"?  He  and  I  are  going 
to  have  one  of  these  amicable  literary  duels  soon, 
like  the  famous  Isn't  That  Just  Like  a  Man?  Oh, 
Well,  You  Know  How  Women  Are!  which  Mrs. 
Rinehart  and  Irvin  Cobb  fought  to  a  finish.  But 
speaking  of  sport,  I  have  discovered  my  grandest 
favourite  sport,  in  spite  of  motoring,  which  is  deep 
sea  fishing,  nothing  less.  Let  me  inform  you  that 
I  landed  a  9-pound  dolphin  which  he  is  like  fire- 
opals  all  over  and  will  grace  the  wall  of  my  din- 
ing-room no  matter  if  all  my  friends  suffer  with 
him  the  rest  of  their  lives.     He  was  a  male  dol- 

[89] 


WHEN  WINTER  COMES  TO  MAIN  STREET 

phin;  get  that  I  It  makes  a  difference  from  the 
deep  sea  fishing  sportsman's  standpoint.  And  this 
place  of  mine  at  the  end  of  South  Broadway  where 
I  can  roll  cocoanuts  the  rest  of  my  life  if  I  want 
to  is  at,  in  or  about  Delray,  Florida.  D-e-1-r-a-y; 
you've  spelled  it." 

"We're  publishing  your  new  book  on  how  to 
get  thin,  Tomorrow  We  Diet'* 

"Oh,  yes.  Well,  I  am  several  laps  ahead  of 
that.  Now,  I  am  going  up  to  my  home  in  Madi- 
son, Connecticut,  to  work.  Later,  I'll  maybe  drive 
out  to  Yellowstone  Park  or  some  place.  Well,  I 
might  stay  here  at  the  Brevoort  for  a  month ;  run 
down  to  Philadelphia,  maybe.  Did  you  know  I 
once  wrote  a  book  for  children  that  has  sold 
500,000  copies'?  And,  besides  a  young  son  whom 
I  am  capable  of  entertaining  if  you'll  let  him  tell 
you,  I  have  a  few  ideas.  .  .  ." 

Hold  on !     This  isn't  so  easy  as  it  looked. 

Probably  Nina  W^ilcox  Putnam  is  inimitable. 
This  one  and  that  may  steal  Ring  W.  Lardner's 
stuff,  but  there  is  a  sort  of  Yale  lock  effect  about 
the  slang  (American  slanguage)  in  such  books  as 
West  Broadway  which  is  not  picked  so  easily.  As 
for  the  new  Nina  Wilcox  Putnam  novel.  Laugh- 
ter Litnited — if  you  don't  believe  what  we  say 
about  N.W.P.  inimitableness  just  open  that  book 
and  see  for  yourself.  The  story  of  a  movie 
actress*?  Yes,  and  considerable  more.  Just  as 
West  Broadway  was  a  great  deal  more  than  an 
amusing   story,    being   actually   the   best    hunch 

[9°] 


SHAMELESS  FUN 

extant  on  transcontinental  motoring,  outside  of 
the  automobile  blue  books,  which  are  not  nearly 
such  good  reading. 

And  then  there's  Tomorrow  We  Diet^  in  which 
Nina  Wilcox  Putnam  tells  how  she  reduced  fifty 
pounds  in  seven  months  without  exercising  any- 
thing but  her  intelligence.  But  if  you  want  to 
know  about  Nina  Wilcox  Putnam,  read  her  story 
in  her  own  words  that  appeared  in  the  American 
Magazine  for  May,  1922.    Here  is  a  bit  of  it: 

"Believe  you  me,  considering  the  fact  that  they 
are  mostly  men,  which  it  would  hardly  be  right 
to  hold  that  up  against  them.  Editors  in  my  ex- 
perience has  been  an  unusually  fine  race,  and  it  is 
my  contracts  with  them  has  made  me  what  I  am 
today,  I'm  sure  I'm  satisfied.  And  when  a  fellow 
or  sister  writer  commences  hollering  about  how 
Editors  in  America  don't  know  anything  about 
what  is  style  or  English,  well  anyways  not  enough 
to  publish  it  when  they  see  it,  why  all  I  can  say  is 
that  I  could  show  them  living  proof  to  the  con- 
trary, only  modesty  and  good  manners  forbids  me 
pointing,  even  at  myself.  I  am  also  sure  that  the 
checks  these  hollerers  have  received  from  said 
Editors  is  more  apt  to  read  the  Editor  regrets 
than  pay  to  the  order  of,  if  you  get  what  I  mean. 

"Well,  I  have  had  it  pretty  soft,  I  will  admit, 
because  all  the  work  I  done  to  get  where  I  am,  is 
never  over  eight  hours  a  day  penal  servitude, 
locked  up  in  my  study  and  fighting  against  only 
such  minor  odds  and  intrusions  as  please  may  I 

[91] 


WHEN  WINTER  COMES  TO  MAIN  STREET 

have  a  dollar  and  a  quarter  for  the  laundry,  or 
now  dear  you  have  been  writing  long  enough,  I 
have  brought  you  a  nice  cup  of  tea,  just  when  I 
am  going  strong  on  a  important  third  chapter. 
But  my  work  is  of  course  not  really  work  since  it 
is  done  in  the  home,  as  my  relations  often  remind 
me.  At  least  they  did  until  I  got  George,  that's 
my  pres.  husband,  and  he  never  lets  me  be  inter- 
rupted unless  he  wants  to  interrupt  me  himself  for 
a  clean  collar  or  something. 

"Also  besides  working  these  short  hours,  four 
of  which  is  generally  what  us  authors  calls  straight 
creative  work,  I  have  it  soft  in  another  way.  I 
got  a  pretty  good  market  for  my  stuff  and  always 
had,  and  this  of  course  has  got  me  so's  I  can  draw 
checks  as  neat  and  quick  as  anybody  in  the  family 
and  they  love  to  see  me  do  it. 

"All  kidding  to  one  side  it  is  the  straight  dope 
when  I  say  that  from  being  merely  the  daughter 
of  honest  and  only  moderately  poor  parents  I  have 
now  a  house  of  my  own,  the  very  one  in  our  town 
which  I  most  admired  as  a  child;  and  the  quit- 
claim deed  come  out  of  my  own  easy  money.  I 
also  got  a  car  or  two — and  a  few  pieces  of  the 
sort  of  second-hand  stuff  which  successful  people 
generally  commence  cluttering  up  their  house 
with  as  a  sign  of  outward  and  visible  success.  I 
mean  the  junk  one  moves  in  when  one  moves  the 
golden  oak  out.  .  .  . 

"I  never  commenced  going  over  really  big  until 
it  was  up  to  me  to  make  good  every  time  I  deliv- 

[92] 


SHAMELESS  FUN 

ered,  and  this  was  not  until  my  husband  died  and 
left  me  with  a  small  son,  which  I  may  say  in 
passing,  that  I  consider  he  is  the  best  thing  I  have 
ever  published.  Well,  there  I  was,  a  widow  with 
a  child,  and  no  visible  means  of  support  except 
when  I  looked  into  the  mirror.  Of  course,  before 
then  I  had  been  earning  good  money,  but  only 
when  I  wanted  something,  or  felt  like  it.  Now  I 
had  to  want  to  feel  like  it  three  hundred  and  sixty- 
five  days  a  year. 

"I'll  tell  the  world  it  was  some  jolt." 


11 

Perfect  Behaviour  is  the  calmly  confident  title 
of  the  new  book  by  Donald  Ogden  Stewart — a 
work  which  will  rejoice  the  readers  of  A  Parody 
Outline  of  History.  Behaviour  is  the  great  ob- 
stacle to  happiness.  One  may  overcome  all  the 
ordinary  complexes.  One  may  kill  his  cousins  and 
get  his  nephews  and  nieces  deported,  and  refuse 
to  perform  Honest  Work — yet  remain  a  hopeless 
slave  to  the  Book  of  Etiquette.  In  a  Pullman 
car,  with  a  ticket  for  the  lower  berth,  he  will  take 
the  seat  facing  backward,  only  to  tremble  and 
blush  with  shame  on  learning  his  social  error. 
Who  has  not  suffered  the  mortification  of  picking 
up  the  fork  that  was  on  the  floor  and  then  finding 
out  afterward  that  it  was  the  function  of  the 
waiter  to  pick  up  the  fork*?  What  is  a  girl  to  do 
if,  escorted  home  at  night  from  the  dance,  she 

[93] 


WHEN  WINTER  COMES  TO  MAIN  STREET 

finds  the  hour  is  rather  late  and  yet  her  folks  are 
still  up*?  Whether  she  should  invite  the  young 
man  in  or  ask  him  to  call  again,  she  is  sure  to  do 
the  wrong  thing.  Then  there  are  those  wedding 
days,  the  proudest  and  happiest  of  a  girl's  life, 
when  she  slips  her  hand  into  the  arm  of  the  wrong 
man  or  otherwise  gives  herself  away  before  she  is 
given  away.  Tragedy  lurks  in  such  trifles.  Don 
Stewart,  who  has  suffered  countless  mortifications 
and  heartbreaks  from  just  such  little  things  as 
these,  determined  that  something  shall  be  done  to 
spare  others  his  own  unfortunate  experiences. 

Perfect  Behaviour  is  the  result  of  his  brave 
determination.  It  is  a  book  that  will  be  con- 
stantly in  demand  until  society  is  abolished. 
Then,  too,  there  is  that  new  behaviouristic  psy- 
cholog}^  You  have  not  heard  of  that?  I  can 
only  assure  you  that  Mr.  Stewart's  great  work  is 
founded  upon  all  the  most  recent  principles  of 
behaviouristic  psychology.  Noted  scientists  will 
undoubtedly  endorse  it.  You  will  endorse  it 
yourself,  and  you  will  be  able  to  cash  in  on  it. 

Stewart  wrote  A  Parody  Outline  of  History 
for  The  Bookman.  When  the  idea  was  broached, 
John  Farrar,  editor  of  The  Bookman,  was  about 
the  only  person  who  saw  the  possibilities.  Re- 
sponse to  the  Parody  Outline  of  History  was  im- 
mediate, spontaneous  and  unanimous.  When  the 
chapters  appeared  as  a  book,  this  magnificent  take- 
off of  contemporary  American  writers  as  well  as 
of  H.  G.  Wells  leaped  at  once  into  the  place  of  a 

[94] 


SHAMELESS  FUN 

best  seller.  It  remains  one.  The  thing  that  it 
accomplished  is  not  likely  to  be  well  done  again 
for  years. 

■  •  • 

111 

Neither  Here  Nor  There  is  the  title  of  a  new 
book  by  Oliver  Herford,  author  of  This  Giddy 
Globe. 

I  do  not  know  which  is  funnier,  Herford  or  his 
books.  Among  the  unforgotten  occasions  was  one 
when  he  was  in  the  Doran  office  talking  about  a 
forthcoming  book  and  nibbling  on  animal  crackers. 
Suddenly  he  stopped  nibbling  and  exclaimed  with 
a  gasp  of  dismay : 

"Good  heavens!  I've  been  eating  the  illus- 
trations for  my  book." 


IV 

Timothy  Tuhhfs  Journal  is,  of  course,  the 
diary  of  the  famous  British  novelist  with  notes  by 
Theresa  Tubby,  his  wife.  Tubby,  on  his  visit  to 
this  side,  was  remarkably  observant.    He  says: 

"How  weary  we  were  after  a  few  hours  of  being 
interviewed  and  photographed  I  This  deep  ap- 
preciation on  the  part  of  the  American  people 
was  touching,  but  exhausting.  Yet  my  publish- 
ers telephoned  me  every  two  or  three  hours,  to  say 
that  editions  of  my  latest  novel  were  flying 
through  multitudinous  presses;  that  I  must  bear 
up  under  the  strain  and  give  the  public  what  it 

[95] 


WHEN  WINTER  COMES  TO  MAIN  STREET 

demands;  namely,  the  glimpse  of  me  and  of  my 
aristocratic  wife.  This,  it  seems,  is  what  sells  a 
book  in  America.  The  public  must  see  an  author 
in  order  to  believe  that  he  can  write. 

"When  my  distinguished  forebear  Charles 
Dickens  ^  arrived  in  the  town  of  Boston,  he  found 
his  room  flooded  with  offers  of  a  pew  at  Sunday 
morning  church.  This  fashion  in  America  has 
apparently  passed,  though  I  was  taken  on  sight- 
seeing expeditions  to  various  cathedrals  whose 
architecture  seemed  to  me  to  be  execrable  (largely 
European  copies — nothing  natively  American). 
It  was  never  suggested  that  I  attend  divine  service. 
On  the  contrary,  I  had  countless  invitations  to  be 
present  at  what  is  known  as  a  'cocktail  chase.' 
My  New  York  literary  admirers  seemed  tumbling 
over  one  another  to  offer  me  keys  to  their  cellars 
and  to  invite  me  to  take  part  in  one  of  those 
strange  functions.  It  is  their  love  of  danger, 
rather  than  any  particular  passion  for  liquor, 
that  has,  I  believe,  given  birth  to  these  elaborate 
fetes. 

"A  cocktail  chase  takes  place  shortly  before 
dinner.  It  may  lead  you  into  any  one  of  a  number 
of  places,  even  as  far  as  the  outlying  districts  of 
the  Bronx.  If  you  own  a  motor,  you  may  use 
that;  if  not,  a  taxi  will  do.  Usually  a  large  num- 
ber of  motors  are  employed.  Add  to  this  pursuing 
motorcycle  policemen,  and  the  sight  is  most  im- 

^  The  relationship  was  on  my  husband's  father's  side.     The 
Turbots  were  never  so  closely  connected  with  the  bourgeoisie. 

[96] 


SHAMELESS  FUN 

pressive.  The  police  are  for  protection  against 
crime  waves,  not  for  the  arrest  of  the  cocktail 
chasers.  A  revenue  agent  performs  this  function, 
when  it  becomes  necessary. 

"The  number  of  our  invitations  was  so  large 
that  it  was  hard  to  pick  and  choose.  Naturally,  we 
did  not  care  to  risk  attendance  at  any  function 
which  might  injure  our  reputation.  Usually  my 
wife  has  an  almost  psychic  sense  of  such  matters ; 
but  the  Social  Register  was  of  no  assistance  in  this 
case.^  Before  several  hours  had  passed,  however, 
we  decided  to  hire  a  social  secretary.  I  phoned 
my  publisher  for  a  recommendation.  'Dear 
Tubby,'  he  said,  'what  you  need  is  a  publicity 
agent,  not  a  social  secretary.  I'll  send  you  the 
best  New  York  can  offer  immediately.  It  was 
careless  of  me  not  to  think  of  it  before.  You 
seemed  to  have  a  genius  for  that  sort  of  thing 
yourself.' 

"The  publicity  agent  is  difficult  to  explain.  He 
is  somehow  connected  with  an  American  game 
which  originated  in  the  great  northwest,  and 
which  is  called  log-rolling.  He  stands  between 
you  and  the  public  which  is  clamouring  for  a 
glimpse  of  you.  The  difference  between  a  social 
secretary  and  a  publicity  agent  seems  to  be  that 
the  former  merely  answers  invitations,  while  the 
latter  makes  sure  that  you  are  invited.    He  writes 


*  We,  of  course,  had  entree  to  all  the  best  Fifth  Avenue  homes, 
but  since  we  have  now  become  literary  folk,  we  chose  to  re- 
main so.    We  therefore  avoided  the  better  classes. 


[97] 


WHEN  WINTER  COMES  TO  MAIN  STREET 

your  speeches  for  you,  sometimes  even  goes  so  far 
as  to  write  your  novels,  and,  in  a  strange  place, 
will  impersonate  you  at  all  public  functions  unless 
your  wife  objects.^ 

"Mr.  Vernay  arrived,  fortunately,  in  time  to 
sort  our  invitations.  'First,'  he  said,  'just  you 
and  Terry'  (he  was  one  of  those  brusque  new 
world  types  and  Theresa  rather  enjoyed  his  fa- 
miliarity— 'so  refreshing,'  I  remember  she  said) 
*sit  right  down  and  I'll  tell  you  all  about  litera- 
ture in  this  here  New  York.'  " 

...  I  have  always  been  meaning  to  read 
Tubby's  novels — so  like  those  of  Archibald  Mar- 
shall and  Anthony  Trollope,  I  understand — but 
have  never  got  around  to  it.  Now  I  feel  I  simply 
must. 


Such  an  expert  judge  as  Franklin  P.  Adams  has 
considered  that  the  ablest  living  parodist  in  verse 
is  J.  C.  Squire.  Certainly  his  Collected  Parodies 
is  a  masterly  performance  quite  fit  to  go  on  the 
shelf  with  Max  Beerbohm's  A  Christmas  Garland. 
In  Collected  Parodies  will  be  found  all  those 
verses  which,  published  earlier  in  magazines  and 
in  one  or  two  books,  have  delighted  the  readers 
of  Punch  and  other  magazines — "Imaginary 
Speeches,"  "Steps  to  Parnassus,"  "Tricks  of  the 

^Indeed  Mr.  Vernay  was  a  most  accomplished  gentleman, 
and  I  never  objected  to  him.  I  only  remarked  once  that  I 
•was  glad  Timothy  was  not  so  attractive  to  the  ladies  as  Mr. 
Vernay.     This,  I  did  not  consider   an  objection. 


[98] 


SHAMELESS  FUN 

Trade,"  "Repertory  Drama,  How  They  Do  It 
and  How  They  Would  Have  Done  It,"  "Imag- 
inary Reviews  and  Speeches"  and  "The  Aspir- 
ant's Manual." 

The  great  source  book  of  fun  in  rhyme,  how- 
ever, is  and  will  for  a  long  time  remain  Carolyn 
Wells's  The  Book  of  Humorous  Verse.  This  has 
not  an  equal  in  existence,  so  far  as  I  know,  except 
The  Home  Book  of  Verse.  Here  in  nearly  900 
pages  are  specimens  of  light  verse  from  Chaucer  to 
Chesterton.  Modern  writers,  such  as  Bert  Leston 
Taylor  and  Don  Marquis,  share  the  pages  with 
Robert  Herrick  and  William  Cowper,  Charles 
Lamb  and  Oliver  Wendell  Holmes.  Verses  whim- 
sical, satiric,  narrative,  punning — there  is  no  con- 
ceivable variety  overlooked  by  Miss  Wells  in 
what  was  so  evidently  a  labour  of  love  as  well  as 
of  the  most  careful  industry,  an  industry  directed 
by  an  exceptional  taste. 

P.  G.  Wodehouse  used  to  write  lyrics  for  musi- 
cal plays  in  England,  interpolating  one  or  two  in 
existing  successes.  Then  he  came  to  America  and 
began  writing  lyrics,  interpolating  them  in  musi- 
cal comedies  over  here.  Then  he  began  inter- 
polating extremely  funny  short  stories  in  the 
American  magazines  and  he  has  now  succeeded  in 
interpolating  into  modern  fiction  some  of  the 
funniest  novels  of  the  last  few  years.  This  bit 
from  his  latest.  Three  Men  and  a  Maid.,  is  typical : 

"Mrs.  Hignett  was  never  a  very  patient  woman. 

"  'Let  us  take  all  your  negative  qualities  for 

[99] 


WHEN  WINTER  COMES  TO  MAIN  STREET 

granted,'  she  said  curtly.  'I  have  no  doubt  that 
there  are  many  things  which  you  do  not  do.  Let 
us  confine  ourselves  to  issues  of  definite  impor- 
tance. What  is  it,  if  you  have  no  objection  to  con- 
centrating your  attention  on  that  for  a  moment, 
that  you  wish  to  see  me  about*?' 

"  'This  marriage.' 

"  'What  marriage^' 

"  'Your  son's  marriage.' 

"  'My  son  is  not  married.' 

"  'No,  but  he's  going  to  be.  At  eleven  o'clock 
this  morning  at  the  Little  Church  Around  the 
Corner  I' 

"Mrs.  Hignett  stared. 

'"Are  you  mad? 

"  'Well,  I'm  not  any  too  well  pleased,  I'm 
bound  to  say,'  admitted  Mr.  Mortimer.  'You  see, 
darn  it  all,  I'm  in  love  with  the  girl  myself  I' 

'"Who  is  this  girl  r 

"  'Have  been  for  years.  I'm  one  of  those  silent, 
patient  fellows  who  hang  around  and  look  a  lot, 
but  never  tell  their  love.  .  .  .' 

"  'Who  is  this  girl  who  has  entrapped  my 
sonr 

"  'I've  always  been  one  of  those  men  who  .  .  .' 

"'Mr.  Mortimer  I  With  your  permission  we 
will  take  your  positive  qualities  for  granted.  In 
fact,  we  will  not  discuss  you  at  all.  .  .  .  What 
is  her  name? 

"  'Bennett.' 

"'Bennett?  Wilhelmina  Bennett?  The  daugh- 
[loo] 


SHAMELESS  FUN 

ter  of  Mr.  Rufus  Bennett'?  The  red-haired  girl 
I  met  at  lunch  one  day  at  your  father's  housed' 

"  'That's  it.  You're  a  great  guesser.  I  think 
you  ought  to  stop  the  thing.' 

"  'I  intend  to.' 

"'Fine!' 

"  'The  marriage  would  be  unsuitable  in  every 
way.  Miss  Bennett  and  my  son  do  not  vibrate 
on  the  same  plane.' 

"  'That's  right.    I've  noticed  it  myself.' 

"  'Their  auras  are  not  the  same  colour.' 

"  'If  I  thought  that  once,'  said  Bream  Mor- 
timer, 'I've  thought  it  a  hundred  times.  I  wish  I 
had  a  dollar  for  every  time  I  thought  it.  Not  the 
same  colour!  That's  the  whole  thing  in  a  nut- 
shell.' " 

Mr.  Wodehouse  is  described  by  a  friend  as 
"now  a  somewhat  fluid  inhabitant  of  England, 
running  over  here  spasmodically.  Last  summer 
he  bought  a  race-horse.  It  is  the  beginning  of  the 
end!" 


[loi] 


Chapter  VII 

THE  VITALITY  OF  MARY  ROBERTS 
RINEHART 


THE  total  result  .  .  .  after  twelve  years  is 
that  I  have  learned  to  sit  down  at  my  desk 
and  begin  work  simultaneously,"  wrote  Mrs.  Rine- 
hart  in  1917.  "One  thing  died,  however,  in  those 
years  of  readjustment  and  struggle.  That  was 
my  belief  in  what  is  called  'inspiration.'  I  think 
I  had  it  now  and  then  in  those  days,  moments 
when  I  felt  things  I  had  hardly  words  for,  a 
breath  of  something  much  bigger  than  I  was,  a 
little  lift  in  the  veil. 

"It  does  not  come  any  more. 

"Other  things  bothered  me  in  those  first  early 
days.  I  seemed  to  have  so  many  things  to  write 
about  and  writing  was  so  difficult.  Ideas  came, 
but  no  words  to  clothe  them.  Now,  when  writing 
is  easy,  when  the  technique  of  my  work  bothers 
me  no  more  than  the  pen  I  write  with,  I  have  less 
to  say. 

"I  have  words,  but  fewer  ideas  to  clothe  in 
them.  And,  coming  more  and  more  often  is  the 
[102] 


MARY   ROBERTS    RINEHART 


[IO3I 


VITALITY  OF  MARY  ROBERTS  RINEHART 

feeling  that,  before  I  have  commenced  to  do  my 
real  work,  I  am  written  out;  that  I  have  for  years 
wasted  my  substance  in  riotous  writing  and  that 
now,  when  my  chance  is  here,  when  I  have  lived 
and  adventured,  when,  if  ever,  I  am  to  record 
honestly  my  little  page  of  these  great  times  in 
which  I  live,  now  I  shall  fail." 

These  surprising  words  appeared  in  an  article 
in  the  American  Magazine  for  1917.  Not  many 
months  later  The  Amazing  Interlude  was  pub- 
lished and,  quoting  Mrs.  Rinehart  soon  afterward, 
I  said:  "If  her  readers  shared  this  feeling  they 
must  have  murmured  to  themselves  as  they  turned 
the  absorbing  pages  of  The  Amazing  Interlude: 
'How  absurd !'  It  is  doubtful  if  they  recalled  the 
spoken  misgiving  at  all." 

Few  novels  of  recent  years  have  had  so  capti- 
vating a  quality  as  had  this  war  story.  But  I  wish 
to  emphasise  again  what  I  felt  and  tried  to  ex- 
press at  that  time — the  sense  of  Mrs.  Rinehart's 
vitality  as  a  writer  of  fiction.  In  what  seem  to 
me  to  be  her  best  books  there  is  a  freshness  of 
feeling  I  find  astonishing.  I  felt  it  in  K;  I  found 
it  in  The  Amazing  Interlude;  and  I  find  it  in  her 
new  novel  just  published.  The  Breaking  Point. 

The  Breaking  Point  is  the  story  of  a  man's  past 
and  his  inability  to  escape  from  it.  If  that  were 
all,  it  might  be  a  very  commonplace  subject  in- 
deed.    It  is  not  all,  nor  half. 

Dr.  Richard  Livingstone,  just  past  thirty,  is 
supposedly  the  nephew  of  Dr.  David  Livingstone, 

[105] 


WHEN  WINTER  COMES  TO  MAIN  STREET 

with  whom  he  lives  and  whose  practice  he  shares 
in  the  town  of  Haverly;  but  at  the  very  outset  of 
the  novel,  we  have  the  fact  that — according  to  a 
casual  visitor  in  Haverly — Dr.  Livingstone's  dead 
brother  had  no  son;  was  unmarried,  anyway. 
And  then  it  transpires  that,  whatever  may  have 
been  the  past,  Dr.  Livingstone  has  walled  it  off 
from  the  younger  man's  consciousness.  The  elder 
man  has  built  up  a  powerful  secondary  person- 
ality— secondary  in  the  point  of  time  only,  for 
Richard  Livingstone  is  no  longer  aware  of  any 
other  personality,  nor  scarcely  of  any  former 
existence.  He  does,  indeed,  have  fugitive  mo- 
ments in  which  he  recalls  with  a  painful  and  un- 
satisfactory vagueness  some  manner  of  life  that 
he  once  had  a  part  in.  But  in  his  young  man- 
hood, in  the  pleasant  village  where  there  is  none 
who  isn't  his  friend,  deeply  centred  in  his  work, 
stayed  by  the  affection  of  Dr.  Livingstone,  these 
whispers  of  the  past  are  infrequent  and  untroub- 
ling. 

The  casual  visitor's  surprise  and  the  undercur- 
rent of  talk  which  she  starts  is  the  beginning  of  a 
rapid  series  of  incidents  which  force  the  problem 
of  the  past  up  to  the  threshold  of  Richard  Liv- 
ingstone's consciousness.  There  would  then  be 
two  ways  of  facing  his  difficulties,  and  he  takes 
the  braver.  Confronted  with  an  increasingly 
difficult  situation,  a  situation  sharpened  by  his 
love  for  Elizabeth  Wheeler,  and  her  love  for  him, 
young  Dr.  Dick  plays  the  man. 

[>o6] 


VITALITY  OF  MARY  ROBERTS  RINEHART 

The  title  of  Mrs.  Rinehart's  story  comes  from 
the  psychological  (and  physical)  fact  that  there 
is  in  every  man  and  woman  a  point  at  which 
Nature  steps  in  and  says : 

"See  here,  you  can't  stand  this  I  You've  got 
to  forget  it." 

This  is  the  breaking  point,  the  moment  when 
amnesia  intervenes.  But  later  there  may  come  a 
time  when  the  erected  wall  safeguarding  the  sec- 
ondary personality  gives  way.  The  first,  sub- 
merged or  walled-off  personality  may  step  across 
the  levelled  barrier.  That  extraordinarily  dra- 
matic moment  does  come  in  the  new  novel  and 
is  handled  by  Mrs.  Rinehart  with  triumphant 
skill. 

It  will  be  seen  that  this  new  novel  bears  some 
resemblances  to  K,  by  many  of  her  readers  con- 
sidered Mrs.  Rinehart's  most  satisfactory  story. 
If  I  may  venture  a  personal  opinion,  The  Break- 
ing Point  is  a  much  stronger  novel  than  K.  To 
me  it  seems  to  combine  the  excellence  of  char- 
acter delineation  noticeable  in  K  with  the  dra- 
matic thrill  and  plot  effectiveness  which  made 
The  Amazing  Interlude  so  irresistible  as  you 
read  it. 


11 

To  say  so  much  is  to  bear  the  strongest  testi- 
mony to  that  superb  vitality,  which,  characteristic 
of  Mrs.  Rinehart  as  a  person,  is  yet  more  charac- 

[107] 


WHEN  WINTER  COMES  TO  MAIN  STREET 

teristic  of  her  fiction.  There  is,  I  suppose,  this 
additional  interest  in  regard  to  The  Breaking 
Pointy  that  Mrs.  Rinehart  is  the  wife  of  a  physi- 
cian and  was  herself,  before  her  marriage,  a 
trained  nurse.  The  facts  of  her  life  are  interest- 
ing, though  not  nearly  so  interesting  as  the  way 
in  which  she  tells  them. 

She  was  the  daughter  of  Thomas  Beveridge 
Roberts  and  Cornelia  (Gilleland)  Roberts  of 
Pittsburgh.  From  the  city's  public  and  high 
schools  she  went  into  a  training  school  for  nurses, 
acquiring  that  familiarity  with  hospital  scenes 
which  served  her  so  well  when  she  came  to  write 
The  Amazing  Adventures  of  Letitia  Carberry^  the 
stories  collected  under  the  title  of  Tish  and  the 
novel  K.  She  became,  at  nineteen,  the  wife  of 
Stanley  Marshall  Rinehart,  a  Pittsburgh  physi- 
cian. 

"Life  was  very  good  to  me  at  the  beginning," 
said  Mrs.  Rinehart  in  the  American  Magazine 
article  I  have  referred  to.  "It  gave  me  a  strong 
body  and  it  gave  me  my  sons  before  it  gave  me 
my  work.  I  do  not  know  what  would  have  hap- 
pened had  the  work  come  first,  but  I  should  have 
had  the  children.  I  know  that.  I  had  always 
wanted  them.  Even  my  hospital  experience, 
which  rent  the  veil  of  life  for  me,  and  showed  it 
often  terrible,  could  not  change  that  fundamental 
thing  we  call  the  maternal  instinct.  ...  I  would 
forfeit  every  part  of  success  that  has  come  to  me 
rather  than  lose  any  part,  even  the  smallest,  of 

[108] 


VITALITY  OF  MARY  ROBERTS  RINEHART 

my  family  life.  It  is  on  the  foundation  of  my 
home  that  I  have  builded. 

"Yet,  for  a  time,  it  seemed  that  my  sons  were 
to  be  all  I  was  to  have  out  of  life.  From  twenty 
to  thirty  I  was  an  invalid.  .  .  .  This  last  sum- 
mer (1917),  after  forty  days  in  the  saddle 
through  unknown  mountains  in  Montana  and 
Washington,  I  was  as  unwearied  as  they  were. 
But  I  paid  ten  years  for  them." 

Mrs.  Rinehart  had  always  wanted  to  write. 
She  began  in  1905 — she  was  twenty-nine  that 
year — and  worked  at  a  tiny  mahogany  desk  or 
upon  a  card  table  "so  low  and  so  movable.  It 
can  sit  by  the  fire  or  in  a  sunny  window."  She 
"learned  to  use  a  typewriter  with  my  two  fore- 
fingers with  a  baby  on  my  kneel"  She  wrote 
when  the  children  were  out  for  a  walk,  asleep, 
playing.  "It  was  frightfully  hard.  ...  I  found 
that  when  I  wanted  to  write  I  could  not  and  then, 
when  leisure  came  and  I  went  to  my  desk,  I  had 
nothing  to  say." 

I  quote  from  a  chapter  on  Mrs.  Rinehart  in 
my  book  The  Women  Who  Make  Our  Novels: 

"Her  first  work  was  mainly  short  stories  and 
poems.  Her  very  first  work  was  verse  for  chil- 
dren. Her  first  check  was  for  $25,  the  reward  of 
a  short  article  telling  how  she  had  systematised 
the  work  of  a  household  with  two  maids  and  a 
negro  'buttons.'  She  sold  one  or  two  of  the  poems 
for  children  and  with  a  sense  of  guilt  at  the  de- 
sertion of  her  family  made  a  trip  to  New  York. 

[109] 


WHEN  WINTER  COMES  TO  MAIN  STREET 

She  made  the  weary  rounds  in  one  day,  'a  heart- 
breaking day,  going  from  publisher  to  publisher.' 
In  two  places  she  saw  responsible  persons  and 
everywhere  her  verses  were  turned  down,  'But 
one  man  was  very  kind  to  me,  and  to  that  pub- 
lishing house  I  later  sent  The  Circular  Staircase^ 
my  first  novel.  They  published  it  and  some  eight 
other  books  of  mine,' 

"In  her  first  year  of  sustained  effort  at  writing, 
Mrs,  Rinehart  made  about  $1,200.  She  was  sur- 
rounded by  'sane  people  who  cried  me  down,'  but 
who  were  merry  without  being  contemptuous. 
Her  husband  has  been  her  everlasting  help.  He 
'has  stood  squarely  behind  me,  always.  His  be- 
lief in  me,  his  steadiness  and  his  sanity  and  his 
humour  have  kept  me  going,  when,  as  has  hap- 
pened now  and  then,  my  little  world  of  letters  has 
shaken  under  my  feet,'  To  the  three  boys  their 
mother's  work  has  been  a  matter  of  course  ever 
since  they  can  remember.  'I  did  not  burst  on 
them  gloriously,  I  am  glad  to  say  that  they 
think  I  am  a  much  better  mother  than  I  am  a 
writer,  and  that  the  family  attitude  in  general  has 
been  attentive  but  not  supine.  They  regard  it 
exactly  as  a  banker's  family  regards  his  bank,'  " 

Most  of  the  work  of  the  twelve  years  from 
1905  to  1917  was  done  in  Mrs.  Rinehart's  home. 
But  when  she  had  a  long  piece  of  work  to  do  she 
often  felt  "the  necessity  of  getting  away  from 
everything  for  a  little  while."  So,  beginning 
about  191  ^,  she  rented  a  room  in  an  office  build- 
[no] 


VITALITY  OF  MARY  ROBERTS  RINEHART 

ing  in  Pittsburgh  once  each  year  while  she  was 
writing  a  novel.  It  was  sparsely  furnished  and, 
significantly,  it  contained  no  telephone.  In  1917 
she  became  a  commuter  from  her  home  in  Se- 
wickley,  a  Pittsburgh  suburb.  Her  earnings  had 
risen  to  $50,000  a  year  and  more. 

"My  business  with  its  various  ramifications  had 
been  growing;  an  enormous  correspondence,  in- 
volving business  details,  foreign  rights,  copy- 
rights, moving  picture  rights,  translation  rights, 
second  serial  rights,  and  dramatisations,  had  made 
from  the  small  beginning  of  that  book  of  poems  a 
large  and  complicated  business. 

"I  had  added  political  and  editorial  writing  to 
my  other  work,  and  also  records  of  travel.  I  was 
quite  likely  to  begin  the  day  with  an  article  op- 
posing capital  punishment,  spend  the  noon  hours 
in  the  Rocky  Mountains,  and  finish  off  with  a  love 
story  I 

"I  developed  the  mental  agility  of  a  mountain 
goat  I  Filing  cases  entered  into  my  life,  card  in- 
dex systems.  To  glance  into  my  study  after  work- 
ing hours  was  dismaying." 

More  recently,  Mrs.  Rinehart  has  become  a  resi- 
dent of  Washington,  D.  C.  Her  husband  is 
engaged  in  the  Government  health  service  and  the 
family  lives  in  the  Wardman  Park  Hotel,  having 
taken  the  apartment  of  the  late  Senator  Boies  Pen- 
rose of  Pennsylvania. 


[Ill] 


WHEN  WINTER  COMES  TO  MAIN  STREET 

•  •  • 

111 

"Yet,  if  I  were  to  begin  again,  I  would  go 
through  it  all,  the  rejections  at  the  beginning,  the 
hard  work,  the  envious  and  malicious  hands 
reached  up  to  pull  down  anyone  who  has  risen 
ever  so  little  above  his  fellows.  Not  for  the 
money  reward,  although  that  has  been  large,  not 
for  the  publicity,  although  I  am  frank  enough  to 
say  I  would  probably  miss  being  pointed  out  in  a 
crowd!  But  because  of  two  things:  the  friends 
I  have  made  all  over  the  world,  and  the  increased 
outlook  and  a  certain  breadth  of  perception  and 
knowledge  that  must  come  as  the  result  of  years 
of  such  labour.  I  am  not  so  intolerant  as  in  those 
early  days.  I  love  my  kind  better.  I  find  the 
world  good,  to  work  and  to  play  in. 

"I  sometimes  think,  if  I  were  advising  a  young 
woman  as  to  a  career,  that  I  should  say:  'First, 
pick  your  husband.' 

"It  is  impossible  to  try  to  tell  how  I  have  at- 
tempted to  reconcile  my  private  life  with  my 
public  work  without  mentioning  my  husband. 
Because,  after  all,  it  requires  two  people,  a  man 
and  a  woman,  to  organise  a  home,  and  those  two 
people  must  be  in  accord.  It  has  been  a  sort  of 
family  creed  of  ours  that  we  do  things  together. 
We  have  tried,  because  of  the  varied  outside  in- 
terests that  pull  hard,  to  keep  the  family  life  even 
more  intact  than  the  average.  Differing  widely 
as  they  do,  my  husband's  profession  and  my  ca- 

[112] 


VITALITY  OF  MARY  ROBERTS  RINEHART 

reer,  we  have  been  compelled  to  work  apart.  But 
w^e  have  relaxed,  rested  and  played,  together. 

"And  this  rule  holds  good  for  the  family.  Gen- 
erally speaking,  we  have  been  a  sort  of  closed 
corporation,  a  board  of  five,  with  each  one  given 
a  vote  and  the  right  to  cast  it.  Holidays  and 
home  matters,  and  picnics  and  dogs,  and  every- 
thing that  is  of  common  interest  all  come  up  for  a 
discussion  in  which  the  best  opinion  wins.  The 
small  boy  had  a  voice  as  well  as  the  biggest  boy. 
And  it  worked  well. 

"It  is  not  because  we  happened  to  like  the  same 
things.  People  do  not  happen  to  like  the  same 
*:hings.  It  is  because  we  tried  to,  and  it  is  because 
we  have  really  all  grown  up  together. 

"Thus  in  the  summer  we  would  spend  weeks  in 
the  saddle  in  the  mountains  of  the  Far  West,  or 
fishing  in  Canada.  But  let  me  be  entirely  frank 
here.  These  outdoor  summers  were  planned  at 
first  because  there  were  four  men  and  one  woman 
in  our  party.  Now,  however,  I  love  the  open 
as  the  men  do." 


IV 

"Writing  is  a  clean  profession.  The  writer  gets 
out  of  it  exactly  what  he  puts  in,  no  more  and  no 
less.  It  is  one-man  work.  No  one  can  help.  The 
writer  works  alone,  solitary  and  unaided.  And, 
contrary  to  the  general  opinion,  what  the  writer 
has  done  in  the  past  does  not  help  him  in  the 

[113] 


WHEN  WINTER  COMES  TO  MAIN  STREET 

future.     He  must  continue  to  make  good,   day 
after  day. 

"More  than  that  he  must  manufacture  a  new- 
article  every  day,  and  every  working  hour  of  his 
day.  He  cannot  repeat  himself.  Can  you  imag- 
ine a  manufacturer  turning  out  something  differ- 
ent all  the  time*?  And  his  income  stopping  if  he 
has  a  sick  headache,  or  goes  to  a  funeral?" 


Next  to  the  vitality,  the  variety  of  Mrs.  Rine- 
hart's  work  is  most  noticeable.  Her  first  novel. 
The  Circular  Staircase,  was  a  mystery  tale,  and  so 
was  her  second.  The  Man  in  Lower  Ten.  She  has, 
from  time  to  time,  continued  to  write  excellent 
mystery  stories.  The  Breaking  Point  is,  from  one 
standpoint,  a  first  class  mystery  story;  and  then 
there  is  that  enormously  successful  mystery  play, 
written  by  Mrs.  Rinehart  in  conjunction  with 
Avery  Hopwood,  The  Bat.  Nor  was  this  her  first 
success  as  a  playwright  for  she  collaborated  with 
Mr.  Hopwood  in  writing  the  farce  Seven  Days. 
Shall  I  add  that  Mrs.  Rinehart  has  lived  part  of 
her  life  in  haunted  houses'?  I  am  under  the  im- 
pression that  more  than  one  of  her  residences  has 
been  found  to  be  suitably  or  unsuitably  haunted. 
There  was  that  house  at  Bellport  on  Long  Island 
— but  I  really  don't  know  the  story.  I  do  know 
that  the  family's  experience  has  been  such  as  to 
provide  material  for  one  or  more  very  good  mys- 

[114] 


VITALITY  OF  MARY  ROBERTS  RINEHART 

tery  novels.  My  own  theory  is  that  Mrs.  Rine- 
hart's  indubitable  gift  for  the  creation  of  mystery 
yarns  has  been  responsible  for  the  facts.  I  imag- 
ine that  the  haunting  of  the  houses  has  been  a  pro- 
jection into  some  physical  plane  of  her  busy  sub- 
consciousness. I  mean,  simply,  that  instead  of 
materialising  as  a  story,  her  preoccupation  in- 
duced a  set  of  actual  and  surprising  circumstances. 
Why  couldn't  it"?  Let  Sir  Oliver  Lodge  or  Sir 
Arthur  Conan  Doyle,  the  Society  for  Psychical 
Research,  anybody  who  knows  about  that  sort  of 
thing,  explain! 

Consider  the  stories  about  Letitia  Carberry. 
Tish  is  without  a  literary  parallel.  Well-to-do, 
excitement  loving,  with  a  passion  for  guiding  the 
lives  of  two  other  elderly  maidens  like  herself; 
with  a  nephew  who  throws  up  hopeless  hands  be- 
fore her  unpredictable  performances,  Tish  is 
funny  beyond  all  description. 

Just  as  diverting,  in  a  quite  different  way,  is 
Bab,  the  sub-deb  and  forerunner  of  the  present- 
day  flapper. 

Something  like  a  historical  romance  is  Long 
Live  the  King! — a  story  of  a  small  boy.  Crown 
Prince  of  a  Graustark  kingdom,  whose  scrapes 
and  friendships  and  admiration  of  Abraham  Lin- 
coln are  strikingly  contrasted  with  court  intrigues 
and  uncovered  treason. 

The  Amazing  Interlude  is  the  story  of  Sara  Lee 
Kennedy,  who  went  from  a  Pennsylvania  city  to 
the  Belgian  front  to  make  soup  for  the  soldiers 

[115] 


WHEN  WINTER  COMES  TO  MAIN  STREET 

and  to  fall  in  love  with  Henri.  .  .  .  But  one 
could  go  on  with  other  samples  of  Mrs.  Rinehart's 
abundant  variety.  I  think,  however,  that  the  vi- 
tality of  her  work,  and  not  the  variety  nor  the 
success  in  variety,  is  our  point.  That  vitality  has 
its  roots  in  a  sympathetic  feeling  and  a  sanative 
humour  not  exceeded  in  the  equipment  of  any 
popular  novelist  writing  in  America  today. 

Books 
by  Mary  Roberts  Rinehart 

THE   CIRCULAR  STAIRCASE 

THE   MAN   IN   LOWER  TEN 

WHEN  A  MAN  MARRIES 

THE   WINDOW  AT  THE   WHITE   CAT 

THE  AMAZING  ADVENTURES  OF  LETITIA  CARBERRY 

WHERE  there's  A   WILL 

THE  CASE  OF  JENNY  BRICE 

THE  AFTER  HOUSE 

THE  STREET  OF  SEVEN  STARS 

K 

THROUGH  GLACIER  PARK 

TISH 

THE  ALTAR  OF  FREEDOM 

LONG  LIVE  THE  KING 

TENTING  TO-NIGHT 

BAB,  A  SUB-DEB 

KINGS,  QUEENS  AND   PAWNS 

THE  AMAZING  INTERLUDE 

TWENTY-THREE  AND  A  HALF  HOURS*  LEAVE 


[116] 


VITALITY  OF  MARY  ROBERTS  RINEHART 

DANGEROUS  DAYS 

MORE  TISH 

LOVE   STORIES 

AFFINITIES   AND  OTHER   STORIES 

"isn't  that  JUST  LIKE  A  MAN*?" 

THE  TRUCE  OF  GOD 

A  POOR  WISE  MAN 

SIGHT  UNSEEN  AND  THE  CONFESSION 

THE    BREAKING    POINT 

Sources 
on  Mary  Roberts  Rinehart 

''My  Creed:  The  Way  to  Happiness — As  I  Found 

h"  by  Mary  Roberts  Rinehart.    American 

MAGAZINE,  October,  1917. 
"My  Public"  by  Mary  Roberts  Rinehart,  the 

BOOKMAN,  December,  1920. 
The  Women  Who  Make  Our  Novels,  by  Grant 

Overton,  moffat,  yard  &  company. 
Who's  Who  in  America. 


[117] 


Chapter  VIII 
THEY  HAVE  ONLY  THEMSELVES  TO  BLAME 


IF  people  will  write  memoirs,  they  must  expect 
to  suffer.  They  have  only  themselves  to 
blame  if  life  becomes  almost  intolerable  from  the 
waves  of  praise  and  censure.  I  am  going  to  speak 
of  some  books  of  memoirs  and  biography — highly 
personal  and  decidedly  unusual  books,  in  the 
main  by  persons  who  are  personages. 

The  Life  of  Sir  William  Vernon  Harcourt  con- 
cerns Sir  William  George  Granville  Venables 
Vernon  Harcourt,  who  was  born  in  1827  and  died 
in  1904.  He  was  an  English  statesman,  grandson 
of  Edward  Vernon  Harcourt,  Archbishop  of  York. 
He  was  educated  at  Trinity  College,  Cambridge, 
and  was  called  to  the  bar  in  1854.  He  entered 
Parliament  (for  Oxford)  in  1868,  sat  for  Derby 
1880-95,  and  for  West  Monmouthshire,  1895- 
1904.  He  was  Solicitor-general  1873-74,  Home 
Secretary  1880-85  and  Chancellor  of  the  Ex- 
chequer in  1886,  1892-94  and  1894-95.  From 
March,  1894,  to  December,  1898,  he  was  leader 
of  the  Liberal  Party  in  the  House  of  Commons. 

[118] 


ONLY  THEMSELVES  TO  BLAME 

He  wrote  in  the  London  Times  under  the  signa- 
ture of  "Historicus"  a  series  of  letters  on  Inter- 
national Law,  which  were  republished  in  1863. 
His  biography,  which  begins  before  Victoria 
ascended  the  throne  and  closes  after  her  death, 
is  the  work  of  A.  G.  Gardiner. 

Memoirs  of  the  Memorable  is  by  Sir  James 
Denham,  the  poet-author  of  "Wake  Up,  Eng- 
land!" and  deals  with  most  of  the  prominent  so- 
cial names  of  the  end  of  the  last  and  commence- 
ment of  this  century,  including  Mr.  Gladstone, 
Lord  Beaconsfield,  Lord  Byron,  Robert  Browning, 
the  Bishop  of  London,  Cardinal  Howard,  Lord 
Dunedin,  Lewis  Carroll,  Lord  Marcus  Beresford 
and  the  late  Bishop  of  Manchester.  The  book 
also  deals  with  club  life  and  the  leading  sports- 
men. 

The  Fomp  of  Power  is  by  an  author  who  very 
wisely  remains  anonymous,  like  the  author  of 
The  Mirrors  of  Downing  Street.  I  shall  not  run 
the  risks  of  perjury  by  asserting  or  denying  that 
the  author  of  The  Mirrors  of  Downing  Street  has 
written  The  Pomp  of  Power.  As  to  the  proba- 
bility perhaps  readers  of  The  Pomp  of  Power 
had  better  judge.  It  is  an  extremely  frank  book 
and  its  subjects  include  the  leading  personalities 
of  Great  Britain  to-day  and,  indeed,  all  the  world. 
Lloyd  George,  Field-Marshal  Sir  Henry  Wilson, 
Lord  Haig,  Marshal  Joffre,  Lord  Beaverbrook, 
Millerand,  Loucheur,  Painleve,  Cambon,  Lord 
Northcliffe,  Colonel  Repington  and  Krassin  of 

[>>9] 


WHEN  WINTER  COMES  TO  MAIN  STREET 

Soviet  Russia  are  the  persons  principally  por- 
trayed. The  book  throws  a  searchlight  upon  the 
military  and  diplomatic  relations  of  Britain  and 
France  before  and  during  the  war,  and  also  deals 
with  the  present  international  situation.  It  may 
fairly  be  called  sensational. 

Especially  interesting  is  the  anonymous  au- 
thor's revelation  of  the  role  played  in  the  war  by 
Field-Marshal  Sir  Henry  Wilson,  so  lately  assas- 
sinated in  London.  The  author  was  evidently  an 
intimate  of  Sir  Henry  and,  just  as  evidently,  he 
is  intimately  acquainted  with  Lloyd  George, 
apparently  having  worked  with  or  under  the 
Prime  Minister.  He  is  neither  Lloyd  George's 
friend  nor  enemy  and  his  portrait  of  the  Prime 
Minister  is  the  most  competent  I  can  recall.  Can 
he  be  Philip  Kerr,  Lloyd  George's  adviser*? 

I  praise,  in  this  slightly  superlative  fashion, 
the  picture  of  the  British  Prime  Minister  by  the 
author  of  The  Pomp  of  Power  .  .  .  and  I  pick 
up  another  book  and  discover  it  to  be  E.  T.  Ray- 
mond's Mr.  Lloyd  George:  A  Biographical  and 
Critical  Sketch.  The  author  of  IJncensored 
Celebrities  is  far  too  modest  when  he  calls  his 
new  work  a  "sketch."  It  is  a  genuine  biography 
with  that  special  accent  due  to  the  biographer's 
personality  and  his  power  of  what  I  may  call 
penetrative  synthesis.  By  that  I  mean  the  insight 
into  character  which  coordinates  and  builds — the 
sort  of  biography  that  makes  a  legend  about  a 
man. 

[120] 


ONLY  THEMSELVES  TO  BLAME 

Mr.  Raymond  does  not  begin  with  the  "little 
Welshman"  but  with  a  Roman  Emperor,  Diocle- 
tian, our  first  well-studied  exemplar  of  the  "coali- 
tion mind."  These  are  the  words  with  which, 
after  a  brilliant  survey  of  the  Prime  Minister's 
career,  the  author  closes: 

"If,  however,  we  withhold  judgment  on  every 
point  where  a  difference  of  opinion  is  possible,  if 
we  abandon  to  destructive  criticism  every  act  of 
administrative  vigour  which  is  claimed  by  his 
admirers  as  a  triumph,  if  we  accept  the  least 
charitable  view  of  his  faults  and  failures,  there 
still  remains  more  than  enough  with  which  to 
defy  what  Lord  Rosebery  once  called  'the  body- 
snatchers  of  history,  who  dig  up  dead  reputations 
for  malignant  dissection.'  If  only  that  he  im- 
parted, in  a  black  time,  when  it  appeared  but 
too  likely  that  the  Alliance  might  falter  and  suc- 
cumb from  mere  sick-headache,  his  own  defying, 
ardent,  and  invincible  spirit  to  a  tired,  puzzled, 
distracted  and  distrustful  nation;  if  only  that  he 
dispelled  the  vapours,  inspired  a  new  hope  and 
resolution,  brought  the  British  people  to  that 
temper  which  makes  small  men  great,  assured  our 
Allies  that  their  cause  was  in  the  fullest  sense 
our  own,  and  finally  achieved  the  great  moral 
victory  implied  in  'unity  of  command' — if  these 
things  be  alone  considered,  he  will  be  judged  to 
have  earned  for  his  portrait  the  right  to  a  digni- 
fied place  in  the  gallery  of  history;  and  some 
future  generation  will  probably  recall  with  aston- 

[121] 


WHEN  WINTER  COMES  TO  MAIN  STREET 

ishment  that  it  was  considered  unfit  to  adorn  the 
dining-room  of  a  London  club." 

And  here  are  two  new  books  by  Margot  As- 
quith!  One  is  My  Impressions  of  America,  the 
other  continues  The  Autobiography  of  Margot 
Asquith.  Of  the  first  of  these  books  there  is  to 
say  that  it  represents  Mrs.  Asquith's  matured  im- 
pressions and  will  have  a  value  that  could  not 
possibly  attach  to  interviews  or  statements  she 
gave  on  this  side.  It  also  gives,  for  the  first 
time,  her  frank  and  direct  analyses  of  the  person- 
alities of  the  distinguished  people  whom  she  met 
in  America.  The  continuation  of  her  Autobiog- 
raphy is  a  different  matter.  Those  who  have  read 
The  Autobiography  of  Margot  Asquith  will  be 
prepared  for  the  new  book.  At  least,  I  hope  they 
will  be  prepared  and  yet  I  question  whether  they 
will.  There  is,  after  all,  only  one  person  for  Mrs, 
Asquith  to  surpass,  and  that  is  herself;  and  I 
think  she  has  done  it.  This  new  book  will  add 
Volumes  III.  and  IV.  to  The  Autobiography  of 
Margot  Asquith. 

In  The  Memoirs  of  Djemal  Pasha:  Turkey 
igij-2/  will  be  found  the  recollections  of  a  man 
who  was  successively  Military  Governor  of  Con- 
stantinople, Minister  of  Public  Works  and  Naval 
Minister  and  who,  with  Enver  Bey  and  Talaat 
Bey,  formed  the  triumvirate  which  dictated  Turk- 
ish policy  and  guided  Turkey's  fate  after  the  coup 
d'etat  of  1913.  I  believe  these  memoirs  are  of 
extraordinary  interest  and  the  greatest  impor- 
[122] 


ONLY  THEMSELVES  TO  BLAME 

tance.  They  give  the  first  and  only  account  from 
the  Turkish  side  of  events  in  Turkey  since  1913. 
The  development  of  relations  with  Germany, 
France  and  England  immediately  before  the  war 
is  clearly  traced,  and  a  graphic  account  is  given  of 
the  first  two  months  of  the  war,  the  escape  of  the 
Goeben  and  the  attempts  made  to  keep  Turkey 
neutral.  When  these  failed,  Djemal  Pasha  was 
sent  to  govern  Syria  and  to  command  the  Fourth 
Army,  which  was  to  conquer  Egv'pt.  The  attack 
on  the  Suez  Canal  is  described,  and  then  the  series 
of  operations  which  culminated  in  the  British  re- 
verses in  the  two  battles  of  Gaza.  Further  im- 
portant sections  are  devoted  to  the  revolt  of  the 
Arabs  and  the  question  of  responsibility  for  the 
Armenian  massacres. 

The  value  of  Miscellanies — Literary  and  His- 
torical, by  Lord  Rosebery,  consists  not  so  much  in 
his  recollections  of  people  as  in  the  delight  of 
reading  good  prose.  Lord  Rosebery  has  a  natural 
dignity  and  a  charm  of  lucid  phrasing  that  adapts 
itself  admirably  to  the  essay  form  he  has  chosen. 
The  subjects  he  takes  up  are  beloved  figures  of 
the  past.  Robert  Burns,  as  Lord  Rosebery  talks 
of  him,  walks  about  in  Dumfries  and  holds  spell- 
bound by  sheer  personal  charm  the  guests  of  the 
tavern.  There  are  papers  on  Burke,  on  Dr.  John- 
son, on  Robert  Louis  Stevenson,  and  others  as 
great.  One  group  deals  with  Scottish  History 
and  one  with  the  service  of  the  state.  The  last  is 
a  study  of  the  genius  loci  of  such  places  of  mellow 

[123] 


WHEN  WINTER  COMES  TO  MAIN  STREET 

associations  as  Eton  and  the  Turf.    The  sort  of 
book  one  returns  to  I 


11 

I  was  going  to  say  something  about  Andrew 
C.  P.  Haggard's  book,  Madame  de  Stacl:  Her 
Trials  and  Triumphs.  But  so  profoundly  conr 
vinced  am  I  of  the  book's  fascination  that  I  shall 
reprint  the  first  chapter.  If  this  is  not  worthy  of 
Lytton  Strachey,  I  am  no  judge: 

"In  the  year  1751  a  young  fellow,  only  fourteen 
years  of  age,  went  to  Magdalen  College  at  Ox- 
ford, and  in  the  same  year  displayed  his  budding 
talent  by  writing  The  Age  of  Sesostris^  Conqueror 
of  Asia,  which  work  he  burnt  in  later  years. 

"The  boy  was  Edward  Gibbon,  who,  after  be- 
coming a  Roman  Catholic  at  the  age  of  sixteen, 
was  sent  by  his  father  to  Switzerland,  to  continue 
his  education  in  the  house  of  a  Calvinist  minister 
named  M.  Pavilliard,  under  the  influence  of 
which  gentleman  he  became  a  Protestant  again  at 
Lausanne  eighteen  months  later. 

"The  young  fellow,  while  leading  the  life  of 
gaiety  natural  to  his  age  in  company  with  a  friend 
named  Deyverdun,  became  an  apt  student  of  the 
classics  and  was  soon  a  proficient  in  French,  in 
which  tongue  he  wrote  before  long  as  fluently  as  in 
English.  With  young  Deyverdun  he  worked,  and 
in  his  company  Edward  Gibbon  also  played. 
After  visiting  frequently  at  the  house  of  the  cele- 

[124] 


ONLY  THEMSELVES  TO  BLAME 

brated  Voltaire  at  Monrepos,  and  after  being 
present  when  the  distinguished  French  philoso- 
pher played  in  his  own  comedies  and  sentimental 
pieces,  the  young  fellow's  thoughts  soon  turned  to 
the  theme  which  was  the  continual  subject  of  con- 
versation of  the  ladies  and  gentlemen  who  were 
Voltaire's  guests  and  formed  the  company  of 
amateurs  with  whom  the  great  dramatic  writer 
was  in  the  habit  of  rehearsing  his  plays.  This 
was,  as  might  have  been  suspected  in  such  a  so- 
ciety, the  theme  of  love. 

"As  it  happened,  there  was  in  the  habit  of  visit- 
ing Lausanne  a  young  lady  who  was  a  perfect 
paragon.  Her  name  was  Suzanne  Curchod,  and 
she  was  half  Swiss  and  half  French,  her  father 
being  a  Swiss  pastor  and  her  mother  a  French- 
woman. 

"Very  handsome  and  sprightly  in  appearance, 
the  fair  Suzanne  was  well  instructed  in  sciences 
and  languages.  Her  wit,  beauty  and  erudition 
made  her  a  prodigy  and  an  object  of  universal 
admiration  upon  the  occasion  of  her  visits  to  her 
relations  in  Lausanne.  Soon  an  intimate  connec- 
tion existed  between  Edward  Gibbon  and  her- 
self; he  frequently  accompanied  her  to  stay  at 
her  mountain  home  at  Crassy,  while  at  Lausanne 
also  they  indulged  in  their  dream  of  felicity. 
Edward  loved  the  brilliant  Suzanne  with  a  union 
of  desire,  friendship,  and  tenderness,  and  was  in 
later  years  proud  of  the  fact  that  he  was  once 
capable  of  feeling  such   an   exalted   sentiment. 

[125] 


WHEN  WINTER  COMES  TO  MAIN  STREET 

There  is  no  doubt  that,  had  he  been  able  to  con- 
sult his  own  inclinations  alone,  Gibbon  would 
have  married  Mademoiselle  Curchod,  but,  the 
time  coming  when  he  was  forced  to  return  to  his 
home  in  England  his  father  declared  that  he  would 
not  hear  of  'such  a  strange  alliance.' 

"  'Thereupon,'  says  Gibbon  in  his  autobiog- 
raphy, 'I  yielded  to  my  fate — sighed  as  a  lover, 
obeyed  as  a  son,  and  my  wound  was  insensibly 
healed  by  time,  absence  and  new  habits  of  life.' 

"These  habits  of  life  included  four  or  five  years' 
service  in  the  Hampshire  Militia,  in  which  corps 
Suzanne's  lover  became  a  captain,  the  regiment 
being  embodied  during  the  period  of  the  Seven 
Years'  War. 

"Upon  returning  to  Lausanne,  at  the  age  of 
twenty-six,  in  1763,  Edward  Gibbon  was  warmly 
received  by  his  old  love,  but  he  heard  that  she  had 
been  flirting  with  others,  and  notably  with  his 
friend  M.  Deyverdun.  He  himself,  while  now 
mixing  with  an  agreeable  society  of  twenty  un- 
married young  ladies  who,  without  any  chaperons, 
mingled  with  a  crowd  of  young  men  of  all  na- 
tions, also  'lost  many  hours  in  dissipation.' 

"He  was  not  long  in  showing  Suzanne  that  he 
no  longer  found  her  indispensable  to  his  happi- 
ness, with  the  result  that  she  assailed  him,  al- 
though in  vain,  with  angry  reproaches.  Notwith- 
standing that  she  begged  Gibbon  to  be  her  friend 
if  no  longer  her  lover,  while  vowing  herself  to  be 
confiding  and  tender,  he  acted  hard-heartedly  and 

[126] 


ONLY  THEMSELVES  TO  BLAME 

declined  to  return  to  his  old  allegiance,  coldly  re- 
plying: 'I  feel  the  dangers  that  continued  corre- 
spondence may  have  for  both  of  us.' 

"It  is  impossible  to  feel  otherwise  than  sorry 
for  the  brilliant  Suzanne  at  this  period,  as  al- 
though from  her  subsequent  manoeuvres  it  be- 
came evident  that  her  principal  object  in  life  was 
to  obtain  a  rich  husband,  from  the  manner  in 
which  she  humiliated  herself  to  him  it  is  evident 
that  she  was  passionately  in  love  with  the  author 
of  The  Decline  and  Fall  of  the  Roman  Empire. 

"Eventually  the  neglected  damsel  gave  up  the 
siege  of  an  unwilling  lover,  while  assuring  her 
formerly  devoted  Edward  that  the  day  would 
come  'when  he  would  regret  the  irreparable  loss 
of  the  too  frank  and  tender  heart  of  Suzanne 
Curchod.' 

"Had  the  pair  been  united,  one  wonders  what 
would  have  been  the  characteristics  of  the  off- 
spring of  an  English  literary  man  like  Gibbon, 
who  became  perhaps  the  world's  greatest  his- 
torian, and  a  beautiful  woman  of  mixed  nation- 
ality, whose  subsequent  career,  although  gilded 
with  riches  and  adorned  with  a  position  of  power, 
displays  nothing  above  the  mediocre  and  com- 
monplace. 

"Edward  Gibbon's  fame,  which  was  not  long 
in  coming,  was  his  own,  and  will  remain  for  so 
long  as  a  love  of  history  and  literature  exists  in 
the  world,  whereas  that  of  Suzanne  Curchod  rests 
upon  two  circumstances — the  first  that  she  was 

[127] 


WHEN  WINTER  COMES  TO  MAIN  STREET 

once  the  sweetheart  of  Gibbon,  the  second  that 
she  was  the  mother  of  a  Madame  de  Stael. 

"When  finally  cast  off  by  the  Englishman,  the 
Swiss  Pastor's  daughter  remembered  that,  if 
pretty,  she  was  poor,  and  had  her  way  to  make  in 
the  world.  She  commenced  to  play  fast  and  loose 
with  a  M.  Correvon,  a  rich  lawyer,  whom  she  said 
she  would  marry  'if  she  had  only  to  live  with  him 
for  four  months  in  each  year.' 

"The  next  lover  was  a  pastor,  who  was  as  mer- 
cenary as  herself,  for  he  threw  her  over  for  a  lady 
with  a  large  fortune.  After  this  failure  to  estab- 
lish herself,  Suzanne  became  tired  of  seeking  a 
husband  in  Switzerland  and  went  to  Paris  as  the 
companion  of  the  rich  and  handsome  Madame 
Vermoneux,  the  supposed  mistress  of  Jacques 
Necker,  the  rich  Swiss  banker,  who  was  estab- 
lished in  the  French  capital.  Once  in  Paris,  it 
was  not  long  before  by  her  seductions  Suzanne 
succeeded  in  supplanting  Madame  Vermoneux  in 
the  still  young  banker's  affections,  with  the  result 
that  she  married  him  in  1764. 

"Gibbon,  whom  she  had  last  seen  in  1763,  re- 
turned to  the  side  of  his  former  love  when  she  was 
at  length  safely  married  to  another  man.  We  find 
him  writing  in  1765,  to  his  friend  Lord  Sheffield, 
formerly  Mr.  Holroyd,  that  he  had  spent  ten  de- 
licious days  in  Paris  about  the  end  of  June.  'She 
was  very  fond  of  me,  and  the  husband  was  par- 
ticularly civil.'  He  continues  confidentially: 
'Could  they  insult  me  more  cruelly*?     Ask  me 

[128] 


ONLY  THEMSELVES  TO  BLAME 

every  evening  to  supper,  go  to  bed  and  leave  me 
alone  with  his  wife — what  an  impertinent  se- 
curity I' 

"It  was  in  the  month  of  April  in  the  following 
year,  1766,  that  was  born  Madame  Necker's  only 
child,  Anne  Louise  Germaine,  who  was  destined 
to  become  one  of  the  most  remarkable  women  of 
modern  times.  From  the  great  literary  talent 
displayed  by  this  wonderfully  precocious  child 
from  girlhood,  it  is  difficult  not  to  imagine  but 
that  in  some,  if  merely  spiritual,  way  the  genius 
of  her  mother's  old  lover  had  descended  through 
that  mother's  brain  as  a  mantle  upon  herself. 
That  she  learnt  to  look  upon  Gibbon  with  admira- 
tion at  an  early  age  is  sure.  Michelet  informs  us 
that  owing  to  the  praises  showered  upon  the  his- 
torian by  M.  Necker,  Germaine  was  anxious,  as 
her  mother  had  been  before  her,  to  become  Gib- 
bon's wife.  She  was,  however,  destined  to  have 
another  husband — or  rather  we  should  say  two 
other  husbands." 


Ill 

Recollections  and  Reflections  by  a  Woman  of 
No  Importance  has  added  greatly  to  the  number 
of  this  author's  readers,  gained  in  the  first  instance 
by  her  Memories  Discreet  and  Indiscreet^  which 
was  followed  by  More  Indiscretions. 

Recollections  and  Reflections  consists  of  ran- 
dom memories  of  lords  and  ladies,   sportsmen, 

[129] 


WHEN  WINTER  COMES  TO  MAIN  STREET 

Kings,  Queens,  cooks,  chauffeurs  and  Empresses, 
related  with  a  great  deal  of  philosophy  and  insight 
and  no  little  wit. 

There  are  stories  of  Gladstone's  love-making, 
of  Empress  Eugenie  and  the  diamond  the  soldier 
swallowed,  of  Balfour's  hats,  Henry  Irving's 
swelled  head  and  the  cosmetics  of  Disraeli. 
There  are  stories  of  etiquette  at  a  hair-dressers' 
ball  side  by  side  with  comments  on  Kitchener's 
waltzing. 

Lady  Angela  Forbes  was  the  daughter  of  the 
fourth  Earl  of  Rosslyn  and  the  youngest  child  of 
one  of  the  largest  and  most  prominent  families  in 
England.  Kitchener,  Lord  Roberts,  Disraeli,  the 
Kaiser,  Prince  Edward — she  has  dined  or  sailed 
or  hunted  with  them  all  on  the  most  informal 
terms.  She  tells,  with  engaging  frankness,  in 
Memories  and  Base  Details^  of  the  gaieties,  the 
mistakes  and  tragedies  of  herself  and  her  friends. 

It  was  Baron  von  Margutti  who  informed  the 
Emperor  Francis  Joseph  in  1914  that  Serbia  had 
rejected  his  ultimatum.  The  character  of  the 
Emperor  is  a  moot  question.  The  Emperor 
Francis  Joseph  and  His  Times^  reminiscences  by 
Baron  von  Margutti,  is  by  a  man  who  knew  the 
Emperor  intimately  and  who  knew  the  men  and 
women  who  surrounded  him  daily.  Baron  von 
Margutti  met  all  the  distinguished  European  fig- 
ures, such  as  Edward  VII,  Emperor  Wilhelm, 
Czar  Nicholas  and  the  Empress  Eugenie  who 
came  to  Austria  to  visit.    He  watched  from  a  par- 

[130] 


ONLY  THEMSELVES  TO  BLAME 

ticularly  favourable  vantage  point  the  deft  moves 
of  secret  diplomacy  which  interlaced  the  various 
governments. 

Lord  Frederic  Hamilton,  born  in  1856,  the 
fourth  son  of  the  first  Duke  of  Abercorn,  was  edu- 
cated at  Harrow,  was  formerly  in  the  British 
Diplomatic  Service  and  served  successively  as 
Secretary  of  the  British  Embassies  in  Berlin  and 
Petrograd  and  the  Legations  at  Lisbon  and 
Buenos  Aires.  He  has  travelled  much  and,  be- 
sides being  in  Parliament,  was  editor  of  the  Pall 
Mall  Magazine  till  1900.  The  popularity  of  his 
books  of  reminiscences  is  explained  by  the  fasci- 
nating way  in  which  he  tells  a  story  or  illuminates 
a  character.  Other  books  of  memoirs  have  been 
more  widely  celebrated  but  I  know  of  none  which 
has  made  friends  who  were  more  enthusiastic. 
The  Vanished  Pomps  of  Yesterday^  Days  Before 
Yesterday  and  Here,  There  and  Everywhere  are 
constantly  in  demand.  --.■''' 

But,  all  along,  a  surprise  has  been  in  store 
and  the  time  is  now  here  to  disclose  it  I  The 
talent  for  this  delightful  species  of  memoirising 
runs  through  the  family ;  and  Sir  Frederic  Hamil- 
ton's brother.  Lord  Ernest  Hamilton,  proves  it. 
Lord  Ernest  is  the  author  of  Forty  Years  On,  a 
new  book  quite  as  engaging  as  Here,  There  and 
Everywhere,  and  the  rest  of  Sir  Frederic's.  Word 
from  London  is  that  Sir  Frederic  will  have  no 
new  book  this  year;  he  steps  aside  with  a  gallant 
bow  for  Lord  Ernest.    I  have  been  turning  pages 

[>3i] 


WHEN  WINTER  COMES  TO  MAIN  STREET 

in  Forty  Years  On  and  reading  about  such  mat- 
ters as  the  Copley  curse,  school  life  at  Harrow 
where  Shifner  and  others  bowed  the  knee  to  Baal, 
bull  fights  in  Peru  and  adventures  in  the  Klon- 
dike. Personally  the  most  amusing  moments  of 
the  book  I  find  to  be  those  in  which  Lord  Ernest 
describes  his  experiments  in  speaking  ancient 
Greek  in  modern  Greece.  But  this  is  perhaps  be- 
cause I,  too,  have  tried  to  speak  syllables  of 
Xenophon  while  being  rapidly  driven  (in  a 
barouche)  about  Patras — with  the  same  lament- 
able results.  It  is  enough  to  unhinge  the  reason, 
the  pronunciation  of  modern  Greek,  I  mean. 
But  maybe  your  hobby  is  bathing*?  Lord  Ernest 
has  a  word  in  praise  of  Port  Antonio,  Jamaica, 
as  a  bathing  ground. 

What  he  says  about  hummingbirds — ^but  I 
mustn't!  Forty  Years  On  is  a  mine  of  interest 
and  each  reader  ought  to  be  pretty  well  left  to 
work  it  for  hirhself. 


[132] 


Chapter  IX 
AUDACIOUS  MR.  BENNETT 


MR.  BENNETT'S  audacity  has  always  been 
evident.  One  might  say  that  he  began  by 
daring  to  tell  the  truth  about  an  author,  con- 
tinued by  daring  to  tell  the  truth  about  the  Five 
Towns,  and  has  now  reached  the  incredible  stage 
where  he  dares  to  tell  the  truth  about  marriage. 
This  is  affronting  Fate  indeed.  It  was  all  very 
well  for  Arnold  Bennett  to  write  a  play  called 
Cupid  and  Commonsense.  Perhaps,  in  view  of 
the  fact  that  it  is  one  of  the  great  novels  of  the 
twentieth  century,  it  was  all  right  for  him  to  cre- 
ate The  Old  Wives'  Tale;  but  it  cannot  be  all 
right  for  him  to  compose  such  novels  as  Mr.  Fro- 
hack  and  his  still  newer  story,  Lilian. 

Think  of  the  writers  who  have  stumbled  and 
fallen  over  the  theme  of  marriage.  There  is 
W.  L.  George  .  .  .  but  I  cannot  bring  myself 
to  name  other  names  and  discuss  their  tragic 
fates.  There  are  those  who  have  sought  to  make 
the  picture  of  marriage  a  picture  of  horror;  but 
that  was  because  they  did  not  dare  to  tell  the 

[133] 


WHEN  WINTER  COMES  TO  MAIN  STREET 

truth.  That  marriage  is  all,  no  one  but  Mr. 
Bennett  seems  to  realise.  No  one  but  Mr.  Ben- 
nett seems  to  realise  that,  as  between  husband  and 
wife,  there  are  no  such  things  as  moral  standards, 
there  can  be  no  such  thing  as  an  ethical  code,  there 
can  be  no  interposition  of  lofty  abstractions  which 
Men  call  principles  and  appeal  to  as  they  would 
appeal  to  a  just  God,  Himself.  No  one  but  Mr. 
Bennett  seems  to  realise  that  the  relation  between 
a  man  and  his  wife  necessarily  transcends  every 
abstraction,  brushes  aside  every  ideal  of  "right" 
and  "wrong."  Mr.  Bennett,  in  the  course  of  the 
amazing  discoveries  of  an  amazing  lifetime,  has 
made  the  greatest  discovery  possible  to  mortals 
of  this  planet.  He  has  discovered  that  marriage 
occurs  when  a  man  and  a  woman  take  the  law 
into  their  own  hands,  and  not  only  the  human  law, 
but  the  divine. 

It  would  be  impossible  for  the  hero  of  a  Bennett 
novel  of  recent  years  to  be  a  character  like  Mark 
Sabre  in  //  Winter  Comes.  Arnold  Bennett's 
married  hero  would  realise  that  the  health,  com- 
fort, wishes,  doubts,  dissimulations;  the  jealous- 
ies, the  happiness  or  the  fancied  happiness,  and 
the  exterior  appearances  of  the  woman  who  was 
his  wife  abpH^,  for  practical  purposes,  every- 
thing else.  It  is  due  to  Mr.  Bennett  more  than  to 
anyone  else  that  we  now  understand  that  while 
"husband"  may  be  a  correct  legal  designation, 
"lover"  is  the  only  possible  aesthetic  appellation 
of  the  man  who  is  married.     If  he  is  not  a  lover 

[134] 


ARNOLD  BENNETT 


[135] 


AUDACIOUS  MR.  BENNETT 

he  is  not  a  husband  except  for  statutory  purposes 
— that  is  all. 


11 

It  is  hard  to  describe  Lilian.  I  will  let  you 
taste  it: 

"Lilian,  in  dark  blue  office  frock  with  an  em- 
broidered red  line  round  the  neck  and  detachable 
black  wristlets  that  preserved  the  ends  of  the 
sleeves  from  dust  and  friction,  sat  idle  at  her  flat 
desk  in  what  was  called  'the  small  room'  at  Felix 
Grig's  establishment  in  Clifford  Street,  off  Bond 
Street.  There  were  three  desks,  three  typewriting 
machines  and  three  green-shaded  lamps.  Only 
Lilian's  lamp  was  lighted,  and  she  sat  alone,  v/ith 
darkness  above  her  chestnut  hair  and  about  her, 
and  a  circle  of  radiance  below.  She  was  twenty- 
three.  Through  the  drawn  blind  of  the  window 
could  just  be  discerned  the  backs  of  the  letters  of 
words  painted  on  the  glass:  'Felix  Grig.  Type- 
writing Office.  Open  day  and  night.'  Seen  from 
the  street  the  legend  stood  out  black  and  clear 
against  the  faintly  glowing  blind.  It  was 
eleven  p.m. 

"That  a  beautiful  girl,  created  for  pleasure  and 
affection  and  expensive  flattery,  should  be  sitting^ 
by  herself  at  eleven  p.m.,  in  a  gloomy  office  in 
Clifford  Street,  in  the  centre  of  the  luxurious, 
pleasure-mad,  love-mad  West  End  of  Londbn 
seemed   shocking   and   contrary  ^to   nature,    and 

[137] 


WHEN  WINTER  COMES  TO  MAIN  STREET 

Lilian  certainly  so  regarded  it.  She  pictured  the 
shut  shops,  and  shops  and  yet  again  shops,  filled 
with  elegance  and  costliness — robes,  hats,  stock- 
ings, shoes,  gloves,  incredibly  fine  lingerie,  furs, 
jewels,  perfumes — designed  and  confected  for  the 
setting-off  of  just  such  young  attractiveness  as 
hers.  She  pictured  herself  rifling  those  deserted 
and  silent  shops  by  some  magic  means  and  emerg- 
ing safe,  undetected,  in  batiste  so  rare  that  her 
skin  blushed  through  it,  in  a  frock  that  was  price- 
less and  yet  nothing  at  all,  and  in  warm  marvel- 
lous sables  that  no  blast  of  wind  or  misfortune 
could  ever  penetrate — and  diamonds  in  her  hair. 
She  pictured  thousands  of  smart  women,  with 
imperious  command  over  rich,  attendant  males, 
who  at  that  very  moment  were  moving  quickly  in 
automobiles  from  theatres  towards  the  dancing- 
clubs  that  clustered  round  Felix  Grig's  typewrit- 
ing office.  At  that  very  moment  she  herself  ought 
to  have  been  dancing.  Not  in  a  smart  club ;  no ! 
Only  in  the  basement  of  a  house  where  an  ac- 
quaintance of  hers  lodged;  and  only  with  clerks 
and  things  like  that;  and  only  a  gramophone.  But 
still  a  dance,  a  respite  from  the  immense  ennui 
and  solitude  called  existence  I" 

After  Lilian's  mother  died  she  had  been 
"Papa's  cherished  darling.  Then  Mr.  Share 
caught  pneumonia,  through  devotion  to  duty  and 
died  in  a  few  days;  and  at  last  Lilian  felt  on  her 
lovely  cheek  the  winds  of  the  world;  at  last  §he 
was  free.  Of  high  paternal  finance  she  had  never 

[>38] 


AUDACIOUS  MR.  BENNETT 

in  her  life  heard  one  word.  In  the  week  following 
the  funeral  she  learnt  that  she  would  be  mistress 
of  the  furniture  and  a  little  over  one  hundred 
pounds  net-  Mr.  Share  had  illustrated  the  an- 
cient maxim  that  it  is  easier  to  make  money  than 
to  keep  it.  He  had  held  shipping  shares  too  long 
and  had  sold  a  fully-paid  endowment  insurance 
policy  in  the  vain  endeavour  to  replace  by  adven- 
turous investment  that  which  the  sea  had  swal- 
lowed up.  And  Lilian  was  helpless.  She  could 
do  absolutely  nothing  that  was  worth  money. 
She  could  not  begin  to  earn  a  livelihood.  As  for 
relatives,  there  was  only  her  father's  brother,  a 
Board  School  teacher  with  a  large  vulgar  family 
and  an  income  far  too  small  to  permit  of  generosi- 
ties. Lilian  was  first  incredulous,  then  horror- 
struck. 

■  "Leaving  the  youth  of  the  world  to  pick  up  art 
as  best  it  could  without  him,  and  fleeing  to  join 
his  wife  in  paradise,  the  loving,  adoring  father 
had  in  effect  abandoned  a  beautiful  idolised 
daughter  to  the  alternatives  of  starvation  or  pros- 
titution. He  had  shackled  her  wrists  behind  her 
back  and  hobbled  her  feet  and  bequeathed  her  to 
wolves-  That  was  what  he  had  done,  and  what 
many  and  many  such  fathers  had  done,  and  still 
do,  to  their  idolised  daughters.  J 

"Herein  was  the  root  of  Lilian's  awful  burning 
resentment  against  the  whole  world,  and  of  a 
fierce  and  terrible  determination  by  fair  means  or 
foul  to  make  the  world  pay.     Her  soul  was  a 

[139] 


WHEN  WINTER  COMES  TO  MAIN  STREET 

horrid  furnace,  and  if  by  chance  Lionel  Share 
leaned  out  from  the  gold  bar  of  heaven  and  no- 
ticed it,  the  sight  must  have  turned  his  thoughts 
towards  hell  for  a  pleasant  change.  She  was 
saved  from  disaster,  from  martyrdom,  from  igno- 
miny, from  the  unnameable,  by  the  merest  fluke. 
The  nurse  who  tended  Lionel  Share's  last  hours 
was  named  Grig.  This  nurse  had  cousins  in  the 
typewriting  business.  She  had  also  a  kind  heart, 
a  practical  mind,  and  a  persuasive  manner  with 
cousins." 

Lilian  in  the  office  late  at  night  has  been  en- 
gaged in  conversation  by  her  employer,  Mr.  Grig, 
and  Mr.  Grig  has  finally  come  to  the  point. 

"  'You  know  you've  no  business  in  a  place  like 
this,  a  girl  like  you.  You're  much  too  highly 
strung  for  one  thing.  You  aren't  like  Miss  Jack- 
son, for  instance.  You're  simply  wasting  yourself 
here.  Of  course  you're  terribly  independent,  but 
you  do  try  to  please.  I  don't  mean  try  to  please 
merely  in  your  work.  You  try  to  please.  It's  an 
instinct  with  you.  Now  in  typing  you'd  never 
beat  Miss  Jackson.  Miss  Jackson's  only  alive, 
really,  when  she's  typing.  She  types  with  her 
whole  soul.  You  type  well — I  hear — but  that's 
only  because  you're  clever  all  round.  You'd  do 
anything  well.  You'd  milk  cows  just  as  well  as 
you'd  type.  But  your  business  is  marriage,  and  a 
good  marriage!  You're  beautiful,  and,  as  I  say, 
you  have  an  instinct  to  please.  That's  the  impor- 
tant thing.  You'd  make  a  success  of  marriage 
[140] 


AUDACIOUS  MR.  BENNETT 

because  of  that  and  because  you're  adaptable  and 
quick  at  picking  up.  Most  women  when  they're 
married  forget  that  their  job  is  to  adapt  them- 
selves and  to  please.  That's  their  job.  They 
expect  to  be  kowtowed  to  and  spoilt  and  hu- 
moured and  to  be  free  to  spend  money  without 
having  to  earn  it,  and  to  do  nothing  in  return  ex- 
cept just  exist — and  perhaps  manage  a  household, 
pretty  badly.  They  seem  to  forget  that  there  are 
two  sides  to  a  bargain.  It's  dashed  hard  work, 
pleasing  is,  sometimes.  I  know  that.  But  it  isn't 
so  hard  as  earning  money,  believe  me !  Now  you 
wouldn't  be  like  the  majority  of  women.  You'd 
keep  your  share  of  the  bargain,  and  handsomely. 
If  you  don't  marry,  and  marry  fifty  miles  above 
you,  you'll  be  very  silly.  For  you  to  stop  here  is 
an  outrage  against  commonsense.  It's  merely 
monstrous.  If  I  wasn't  an  old  man  I  wouldn't 
tell  you  this,  naturally.  Now  you  needn't  blush. 
I  expect  I'm  not  far  off  thirty  years  older  than  you 
— and  you're  young  enough  to  be  wise  in  time.'  " 


ni 


It  will  be  seen  that  Lilmn  has  all  the  philoso- 
phy and  humour  which  make  Mr.  Prohack  a  joy 
forever,  and  in  addition  the  new  novel  has  the 
strong  interest  we  feel  in  a  young,  beautiful,  at- 
tractive, helpless  girl,  who  has  her  way  to  make 
in  the  world.     And  yet,  I  love  Mr.  Prohack.     I 

[141] 


WHEN  WINTER  COMES  TO  MAIN  STREET 

think  I  have  by  heart  some  of  the  wisdom  he 
utters;  for  instance — 

On  women:  "Even  the  finest  and  most  agree- 
able women,  such  as  those  with  whom  I  have  been 
careful  to  surround  myself  in  my  domestic  exist- 
ence, are  monsters  of  cruelty." 

On  women's  clubs:  "You  scarcely  ever  speak 
to  a  soul  in  your  club.  The  food's  bad  in  your 
club.  They  drink  liqueurs  before  dinner  at  your 
club.  I've  seen  'em.  Your  club's  full  every  night 
of  the  most  formidable  spinsters  each  eating  at  a 
table  alone.  Give  up  your  club  by  all  means. 
Set  fire  to  it  and  burn  it  down.  But  don't  count 
the  act  as  a  renunciation.    You  hate  your  club." 

On  his  wife:  "You  may  annoy  me.  You  may 
exasperate  me.  You  are  frequently  unspeakable. 
But  you  have  never  made  me  unhappy.  And 
why?  Because  I  am  one  of  the  few  exponents  of 
romantic  passion  left  in  this  city.  My  passion 
for  you  transcends  my  reason.  I  am  a  fool,  but 
I  am  a  magnificent  fool.  And  the  greatest  miracle 
of  modern  times  is  that  after  twenty-four  years 
of  marriage  you  should  be  able  to  give  me  pleas- 
ure by  perching  your  stout  body  on  the  arm  of  my 
chair  as  you  are  doing." 

On  his  daughter:  "In  1917  I  saw  that  girl  in 
dirty  overalls  driving  a  thundering  great  van 
down  Whitehall.  Yesterday  I  met  her  in  her 
foolish  high  heels  and  her  shocking  openwork 
stockings  and  her  negligible  dress  and  her  ex- 
posed throat  and  her  fur  stole,  and  she  was  so 

[142] 


AUDACIOUS  MR.  BENNETT 

delicious  and  so  absurd  and  so  futile  and  so  sure 
of  her  power  that — that — well  .  .  .  that  chit  has 
the  right  to  ruin  me — not  because  of  anything 
she's  done,  but  because  she  is." 

On  kissing :  "That  fellow  has  kissed  my  daugh- 
ter and  he  has  kissed  her  for  the  first  time.  It  is 
monstrous  that  any  girl,  and  especially  my  daugh- 
ter, should  be  kissed  for  the  first  time.  ...  It 
amounts  to  an  outrage." 

On  parenthood :  "To  become  a  parent  is  to  ac- 
cept terrible  risks.  I'm  Charlie's  father.  What 
then*?  .  .  .  He  owes  nothing  whatever  to  me  or' 
to  you.  If  we  were  starving  and  he  had  plenty,  he 
would  probably  consider  it  his  duty  to  look  after 
us;  but  that's  the  limit  of  what  he  owes  us. 
Whereas  nothing  can  put  an  end  to  our  responsi- 
bility towards  him.  .  .  .  We  thought  it  would 
be  nice  to  have  children  and  so  Charlie  arrived. 
He  didn't  choose  his  time  and  he  didn't  choose  his 
character,  nor  his  education,  nor  his  chance.  If  he 
had  his  choice  you  may  depend  he'd  have  chosen 
differently.  Do  you  want  me,  on  the  top  of  all 
that,  to  tell  him  that  he  must  obediently  accept 
something  else  from  us — our  code  of  conduct"?  It 
would  be  mere  cheek,  and  with  all  my  shortcom- 
ings I'm  incapable  of  impudence,  especially  to  the 
young." 

On  ownership:  "Have  you  ever  stood  outside 
a  money-changer's  and  looked  at  the  fine  collection 
of  genuine  banknotes  in  the  window"?  Supposing 
I  told  you  that  you  could  look  at  them,  and  enjoy 

[143] 


WHEN  WINTER  COMES  TO  MAIN  STREET 

the  sight  of  them,  and  nobody  could  do  more? 
No,  my  boy,  to  enjoy  a  thing  properly  you've  got 
to  own  it.  And  anybody  who  says  the  contrary  is 
probably  a  member  of  the  League  of  all  the  Arts." 

On  economics:  "That's  where  the  honest  poor 
have  the  advantage  of  us.  .  .  .  We're  the  dis- 
honest poor.  .  .  .  We're  one  vast  pretence.  .  .  . 
A  pretence  resembles  a  bladder.  It  may  burst. 
We  probably  shall  burst.  Still,  we  have  one  great 
advantage  over  the  honest  poor,  who  sometimes 
have  no  income  at  all ;  and  also  over  the  rich,  who 
never  can  tell  how  big  their  incomes  are  going  to 
be.  We  know  exactly  where  we  are.  We  know 
to  the  nearest  sixpence." 

On  history:  "Never  yet  when  empire,  any  em- 
pire, has  been  weighed  in  the  balance  against  a 
young  and  attractive  woman  has  the  young  woman 
failed  to  win !  This  is  a  dreadful  fact,  but  men 
are  thus  constituted." 

On  bolshevism:  "Abandon  the  word  'bolshe- 
vik.' It's  a  very  overworked  word  and  wants  a 
long  repose." 

iv 

The  best  brief  sketch  of  Arnold  Bennett's  life 
that  I  know  of  is  given  in  the  chapter  on  Arnold 
Bennett  in  John  W.  Cunliffe's  English  Literature 
During  the  Last  Half  Century.  Professor  Cun- 
liffe,  with  the  aid,  of  course,  of  Bennett's  own 
story,  The  Truth  About  an  Author^  writes  as 
follows: 

[144] 


AUDACIOUS  MR.  BENNETT 

"He  was  bom  near  Hanley,  the  'Hanbridge'  of 
the  Five  Towns  which  his  novels  were  to  launch 
into  literary  fame,  and  received  a  somewhat  lim- 
ited education  at  the  neighbouring  'Middle 
School'  of  Newcastle,  his  highest  scholastic 
achievement  being  the  passing  of  the  London 
University  Matriculation  Examination.  Some 
youthful  adventures  in  journalism  were  perhaps 
significant  of  latent  power  and  literary  inclina- 
tion, but  a  small  provincial  newspaper  offers  no 
great  encouragement  to  youthful  ambition,  and 
Enoch  Arnold  Bennett  (as  he  was  then  called) 
made  his  way  at  21  as  a  solicitor's  clerk  to  Lon- 
don, where  he  was  soon  earning  a  modest  liveli- 
hood by  'a  natural  gift  for  the  preparation  of  bills 
for  taxation.'  He  had  never  'wanted  to  write' 
(except  for  money)  and  had  read  almost  nothing 
of  Scott,  Jane  Austen,  Dickens,  Thackeray,  the 
Brontes,  and  George  Eliot,  though  he  had  de- 
jy^^ouTcd  Ouida,  boys'  books  and  serials.  His  first 
ji  .  real  interest  in  a  book  was  'not  as  an  instrument 
i*^  for  obtaining  information  or  emotion,  but  as  a 
book,  printed  at  such  a  place  in  such  a  year  by 
so-and-so,  bound  by  so-and-so,  and  carrying  colo- 
7phpns,  registers,  water-marks,  and  fautes  d'zm- 
'presszon.'  It  was  when  he  showed  a  rare  copy  of 
Manon  Lescaut  to  an  artist  and  the  latter  re- 
marked that  it  was  one  of  the  ugliest  books  he  had 
ever  seen,  that  Bennett,  now  in  his  early  twenties, 
first  became  aware  of  the  appreciation  of  beauty. 
He  won  twenty  guineas  in  a  competition,  con- 

[•45] 


WHEN  WINTER  CO]VrES  TO  MAIN  STREET 

ducted  by  a  popular  weekly,  for  a  humorous 
condensation  of  a  sensational  serial,  being  assured 
that  this  was  'art,'  and  the  same  paper  paid  him 
a  few  shillings  for  a  short  article  on  'How  a  bill 
of  costs  is  drawn  up.'  Meanwhile  he  was  'gorg- 
ing' on  English  and  French  literature,  his  chief 
idols  being  the  brothers  de  Goncourt,  de  Maupas- 
sant, and  Turgenev,  and  he  got  a  story  into  the 
Yellow  Book.  He  saw  that  he  could  write,  and 
he  determined  to  adopt  the  vocation  of  letters. 
After  a  humiliating  period  of  free  lancing  in  Fleet 
Street,  he  became  assistant  editor  and  later  editor 
of  Woman.  When  he  was  31,  his  first  novel, 
A  Man  From  the  North,  was  published,  both  in 
England  and  America,  and  with  the  excess  of  the 
profits  over  the  cost  of  typewriting  he  bought  a 
new  hat.  At  the  end  of  the  following  year  he 
wrote  in  his  diary : 

"  'This  year  I  have  written  335,340  words, 
grand  total :  224  articles  and  stories,  and  four  in- 
stalments of  a  serial  called  The  Gates  of  Wrath 
have  actually  been  published,  and  also  my  book 
of  plays.  Polite  Farces.  My  work  included  six 
or  eight  short  stories  not  yet  published,  also  the 
greater  part  of  a  55,000  word  serial  Love  and 
Life  for  Tillotsons,  and  the  whole  draft,  80,000 
words  of  my  Staffordshire  novel  Anna  Tell- 
Wright.' 

"This  last  was  not  published  in  book  form  till 
1902  under  the  title  of  Anna  of  the  Five  TownSj\  Ui^c 
but  in  the  ten  years  that  had  elapsed  since  he  came 

[146] 


AUDACIOUS  MR.  BENNETT 

to  London,  Bennett  had  risen  from  a  clerk  at  six: 
dollars  a  week  to  be  a  successful  'editor,  novelist, 
dramatist,  critic,  connoisseur  of  all  arts'  with  a 
comfortable  suburban  residence.  Still  he  was  not 
satisfied;  he  was  weary  of  journalism  and  the 
tyranny  of  his  Board  of  Directors.  He  threw  up 
his  editorial  post,  with  its  certain  income,  and 
retired  first  to  the  country  and  then  to  a  cottage 
at  Fontainebleau  to  devote  himself  to  literature. 
'^n  the  autumn  of  1903,  when  Bennett  used  to 
dine  frequently  in  a  Paris  restaurant,  it  happened 
that  a  fat  old  woman  came  in  who  aroused  almost 
universal  merriment  by  her  eccentric  behaviour. 
The  novelist  reflected:  'This  woman  was  once 
young,  slim,  perhaps  beautiful;  certainly  free 
from  these  ridiculous  mannerisms.  Very  probably 
she  is  unconscious  of  her  singularities.  Her  case 
is  a  tragedy.  One  ought  to  be  able  to  make  a 
heart-rending  novel  out  of  a  woman  such  as  she.' 
The  idea  then  occurred  to  him  of  writing  the  book 
which  afterwards  became  The  Old  Wives'  Tale, 
and  in  order  to  go  one  better  than  Guy  de  Mau- 
passant's 'Une  Vie'  he  determined  to  make  it  the 
life-history  of  two  women  instead  of  one.  Con- 
stance, the  more  ordinary  sister,  was  the  original 
heroine;  Sophia,  the  more  independent  and  at- 
tractive one,  was  created  'out  of  bravado.'  The 
project  occupied  Bennett's  mind  for  some  years, 
during  which  he  produced  five  or  six  novels  of 
smaller  scope,  but  in  the  autumn  of  1907  he  began 
to  write  The  Old  Wives'  Tale  and  finished  it  in 

[147] 


WHEN  WINTER  COMES  TO  MAIN  STREET 

July,  1908.  It  was  published  the  same  autumn, 
and  though  its  immediate  reception  was  not  en- 
couraging, before  the  winter  was  over  it  was  rec- 
ognised both  in  England  and  America  as  a  work 
of  genius.  The  novelist's  reputation  was  upheld, 
if  not  increased,  by  the  publication  of  Clayhanger 
in  1910,  and  in  June,  1911,  the  most  conservative 
of  American  critical  authorities,  the  New  York 
Evening  Post,  could  pronounce  judgment  in  these 
terms : 

"  'Mr.  Bennett's  Bursley  is  not  merely  one 
single  stupid  English  provincial  town.  His 
Baineses  and  Clayhangers  are  not  simply  average 
middle  class  provincials  foredoomed  to  humdrum 
and  the  drab  shadows  of  experience.  His  Bursley 
is  every  provincial  town,  his  Baineses  are  all 
townspeople  whatsoever  under  the  sun.  He  pro- 
fesses nothing  of  the  kind ;  but  with  quiet  smiling 
patience,  with  a  multitude  of  impalpable  touches, 
clothes  his  scene  and  its  humble  figures  in  an  at- 
mosphere of  pity  and  understanding.  These  little 
people,  he  seems  to  say,  are  as  important  to  them- 
selves as  you  are  to  yourself,  or  as  I  am  to  myself. 
Their  strength  and  weakness  are  ours;  their  lives, 
like  ours,  are  rounded  with  a  sleep.  And  because 
they  stand  in  their  fashion  for  all  human  charac- 
ter and  experience,  there  is  even  a  sort  of  beauty 
in  them  if  you  will  but  look  for  it.'  " 


[148] 


AUDACIOUS  MR.  BENNETT 

Books 

by  Arnold  Bennett 

Novels: 

A  MAN  FROM  THE  NORTH 

THE  GRAND  BABYLON  HOTEL 

THE    GATES    OF    WRATH 

ANNA  OF  THE  FIVE  TOWNS 

LEONORA 

HUGO 

A  GREAT   MAN 
\/  THE    BOOK    OF    CARLOTTA 
V  WHOM   GOD  HATH  JOINED 

THE    OLD    ADAM 

BURIED  ALIVE 

THE  OLD   wives'   TALE 

CLAYHANGER 

DENRY      THE     AUDACIOUS      [In     England,     THE 

card] 
hilda  lessways 

the  matador  of  the  five  towns 
helen  with  the  high  hand 
the  glimpse 

THE    CITY    OF    PLEASURE 
THESE  TWAIN 
THE  lion's  share 
THE    PRETTY    LADY 
THE    ROLL    CALL 
^  MR.  PROHACK 
LILIAN 


[149] 


WHEN  WINTER  COMES  TO  MAIN  STREET 

Plays: 

N   CUPID  AND  COMMONSENSE 
WHAT  THE  PUBLIC  WANTS 
^THE   HONEYMOON 

MILESTONES   [With  Edward  Knoblauch] 

THE  GREAT  ADVENTURE 
THE  TITLE 
JUDITH 
-^  SACRED  AND  PROFANE  LOVE 
THE  LOVE  MATCH 


Sources 
on  Arnold  Bennett 

Who's  Who     [In  England]. 
English  hiterature  During  the  hast  Half  Century^ 
by   John   W.   Cunliffe.      the    macmillan 

COMPANY. 

Arnold  Bennett.    A  booklet  published  by  george 

H.      DORAN       COMPANY,        IQll.  (Out       of 

print.) 
The  Truth  About  an  Author^  by  Arnold  Bennett. 

GEORGE   H.   DORAN    COMPANY. 

The  Author  s  Craft.,  by  Arnold  Bennett,     george 

H.   DORAN    COMPANY. 

Some  Modern  Novelists.,  by  Helen  Thomas  Fol- 
lett  and  Wilson  FoUett.     henry   holt  & 

COMPANY. 

Arnold  Bennett,  by  J.  F.  Harvey  Darton,  in  the 
writers  of  the  DAY  scries. 

[>5o] 


AUDACIOUS  MR.  BENNETT 

The  critical  articles  on  Mr.  Bennett  and  his  in- 
dividual books  are  too  numerous  to  mention.  The 
reader  is  referred  to  the  New  York  Public  Li- 
brary or  the  Library  of  Congress,  Washington, 
D.  C.,  and  to  the  Annual  Index  of  Periodical 
Publications  for  the  last  twenty  years. 


[>5i] 


Chapter  X 
A  CHAPTER  FOR  CHILDREN 


I  KNOW  of  only  one  book  which  really  aids 
parents  and  others  who  have  to  oversee  chil- 
dren's reading.  That  is  Annie  Carroll  Moore's 
invaluable  Roads  to  Childhood.  The  author,  as 
supervisor  of  work  with  children  in  the  New  York 
Public  Library,  has  had  possibly  a  completer  op- 
portunity to  understand  what  children  like  to  read 
and  why  they  like  it  than  any  other  woman. 
What  is  more,  she  has  the  gift  of  writing  readably 
about  both  children  and  books,  and  an  unusual 
faculty  for  reconciling  those  somewhat  opposite 
poles — things  children  like  to  read  and  the  things 
it  is  well  for  them  to  read. 

Miss  Moore  says  that  the  important  thing  is  a 
discovery  of  personality  in  children  and  a  respect 
for  their  natural  inclinations  in  reading — an  early 
and  live  appreciation  of  literature  and  good  draw- 
ings is  best  imparted  by  exposure  rather  than  by 
insistence  upon  a  too  rigid  selection,  "What  I 
like  about  these  papers,"  said  one  young  mother, 

[152] 


A  CHAPTER  FOR  CHILDREN 


(C 


is  that  they  are  good  talk.  You  can  pick  the 
book  up  and  open  it  anywhere  without  following 
a  course  of  reading  or  instruction  to  understand 
it.  There  is  full  recognition  of  the  fact  that 
children  are  different  and  react  differently  to  the 
same  books  at  different  periods  of  their  develop- 
ment." 

Maude  Radford  Warren's  Tales  Told  by  the 
Gander  is  one  of  those  books  for  children  that 
adults  find  interesting,  too;  and  there  is  a  new 
series  of  children's  books  by  May  Byron,  concern- 
ing which  I  must  say  a  few  words.  The  series  is 
called  "Old  Friends  in  New  Frocks"  and  here  are 
a  few  of  the  titles: 

Billy  Butt's  Adventure:  The  Tale  of  the  Wolf 
and  the  Goat. 

Little  Jumping  Joan:  The  Tale  of  the  Ants  and 
the  Grasshopper. 

Jack-a-Dandy:  The  Tale  of  the  Vain  Jackdaw. 

These  books  are  noteworthy  for  their  beautiful 
illustrations.  Each  volume  has  an  inspired  and 
fanciful  frontispiece  in  colours  by  E.  J.  Detmold 
and  line  illustrations  by  Day  Hodgetts.  More- 
over, there  are  end  papers  and  the  binding  has  a 
picture  in  colour  that  begins  on  the  back  and  ex- 
tends all  the  way  around  in  front.  Naturally 
they  are  for  very  young  children — shall  we  say  up 
to  seven  years  old? 


[153] 


WHEN  WINTER  COPIES  TO  MAIN  STREET 

ii 

On  April  29,  1922,  the  Philadelphia  Public 
Ledger  printed  a  letter  from  twelve-year-old 
Marion  Kummer,  as  follows : 

"Dear  Mr.  Editor:  My  father  asked  me  to 
write  you  a  story  about  him  and  they  say  at  school 
that  I  am  good  at  stories,  so  I  thought  I  would. 
I  think  he  thinks  I  can  write  and  become  a  great 
writer  like  him  some  day,  but  I  would  rather  be  a 
great  actress  like  Leonora  Ulrick.  I  saw  her  in  a 
play  where  she  went  to  sleep  and  they  stuck  pins 
in  her  but  could  not  wake  her  up,  which  part  I 
should  not  like.  But  at  that  I  would  rather  be  an 
actress  because  acting  is  pleasanter  and  more  ex- 
citing and  you  do  not  have  to  write  on  the  type- 
writer all  day  and  get  a  pain  in  your  back.  Daddy 
says  he  would  rather  shovel  coal  but  he  does  not, 
but  snow  sometimes,  which  has  been  very  plenti- 
ful about  here  this  winter,  also  sledding. 

"When  he  is  not  working,  he  goes  for  a  walk 
with  the  dogs,  or  tells  us  most  any  question  we 
should  ask  almost  like  an  encikelopedia.  He  is 
very  good-natured  and  I  love  the  things  he  writes, 
especially  plays.  Daddy  has  just  finished  a  chil- 
dren's book  called  The  Earth's  Story  about  how 
it  began  millions  of  years  ago  when  there  was  a 
great  many  fossils,  so  nice  for  children.  Also 
about  stone  axes.  My  brother  Fred  made  one 
but  when  he  was  showing  us  how  it  worked  the 
head  came  off  and  hit  me  on   the   foot   and  I 


A  CHAPTER  FOR  CHILDREN 

kicked  him.  So  stone  axes  were  one  of  the  man's 
first  weapons.  Daddy  read  us  each  chapter 
when  it  was  done  and  we  helped  him  except  baby- 
brother  who  wrote  with  red  crayon  all  over  one 
chapter  when  no  one  was  there,  and  he  should  not 
have  been  in  Daddy's  office  anyway.  Daddy  has 
to  draw  horses  and  engines  for  him  all  the  time. 
He  gets  tired  of  it  but  what  can  he  do?" 

Now  this  is  very  pleasant,  for  here  on  the  table 
is  the  first  volume  of  The  Earth's  Story — The 
First  Days  of  Man  by  Frederic  Arnold  Kummer ; 
and  this  book  for  children  has  a  preface  for  par- 
ents in  it.    In  that  preface  Mr.  Kummer  says : 

"In  this  process  of  storing  away  in  his  brain 
the  accumulated  knowledge  of  the  ages  the  child's 
mind  passes,  with  inconceivable  rapidity,  along 
the  same  route  that  the  composite  minds  of  his 
ancestors  travelled,  during  their  centuries  of  de- 
velopment. The  impulse  that  causes  him  to  want 
to  hunt,  to  fish,  to  build  brush  huts,  to  camp  out 
in  the  woods,  to  use  his  hands  as  well  as  his  brain, 
is  an  inheritance  from  the  past,  when  his  primi- 
tive ancestors  did  these  things.  He  should  be 
helped  to  trace  the  route  they  followed  with  in- 
telligence and  understanding,  he  should  be  en- 
couraged to  know  the  woods,  and  all  the  great 
world  of  out-of-doors,  to  make  and  use  the  primi- 
tive weapons,  utensils,  toys,  his  ancestors  made 
and  used,  to  come  into  closer  contact  with  the 
fundamental  laws  of  nature,  and  thus  to  lay  a 
groundwork  for  wholesome  and  practical  thinking 

[155] 


WHEN  WINTER  COMES  TO  MAIN  STREET 

which  cannot  be  gained  in  the  classroom  or  the 
city  streets. 

"As  has  been  said,  the  writer  has  tested  the 
methods  outlined  above.  The  chapters  in  The 
First  Days  of  Man  are  merely  the  things  he  has 
told  his  own  children.  It  is  of  interest  to  note 
that  one  of  these,  a  boy  of  seven,  on  first  going  to 
school,  easily  outstripped  in  a  single  month  a 
dozen  or  more  children  who  had  been  at  school 
almost  a  year,  and  was  able  to  enter  a  grade  a  full 
year  ahead  of  them.  The  child  in  question  is  not 
in  the  least  precocious,  but  having  understood  the 
knowledge  he  has  gained,  he  is  able  to  make  use 
of  it,  he  has  a  definite  mental  perspective,  a  sure 
grasp  on  things,  which  makes  study  of  any  kind 
easy  for  him,  and  progression  correspondingly 
rapid." 

To  say  that  Jungle  Tales^  Adventures  in  India, 
by  Howard  Anderson  Musser  is  a  series  of  mis- 
sionary tales  of  adventure  in  India,  is  to  give  no 
idea  of  the  thrills  within  its  covers.  There  are 
fights  with  tigers,  bears  and  bandits,  and  there  is 
one  long  fight  against  ignorance  and  disease,  su- 
perstition and  merciless  greed.  And  the  fighter'? 
He  was  an  American  athlete,  who  had  won  honour 
on  the  track  and  football  field.    Great  for  boys  I 

iii 

The  English  Who's  Who  says: 
"Colonel  Stevenson  Lyle  Cummins" — then  fol- 
lows a  string  of  degrees — "David  Davies  Pro- 

[>56] 


A  CHAPTER  FOR  CHILDREN 

fessor  of  Tuberculosis,  University  College,  South 
Wales,  Monmouthshire,  and  Principal  Medical 
Officer  to  the  King  Edward  VH.  Welsh  National 
Memorial  Association  since  1921.  .  .  .  Entered 
Army  1897;  Captain,  1900;  Major,  1909;  Lieu- 
tenant-Colonel, 1915;  Colonel,  1918;  served  Nile 
Expedition,  1898  (medal  with  clasp,  despatches)  ; 
Sudan  1900,  1902;  Sudan,  1904  (Clasp);  Osma- 
nieh  4th  class,  1907;  European  War,  1914-18 
(C.B.,  C.M.G.,  despatches  six  times,  Brevetted 
Colonel)  ;  Legion  of  Honour  (Officer),  Couronne 
de  Belgique  (Officer)  ;  Col.  1918;  Croix  de  Guerre 
(Belgian),  1918,  retired  from  Army,  1921." 

But  I  don't  suppose  that  it  was  as  a  consequence 
of  anything  in  that  honourable  record  that  Colo- 
nel Cummins  wrote  Plays  for  Children,  in  three 
volumes.  I  suppose  it  was  in  consequence  of  an- 
other fact  which  the  English  Who's  Who  men- 
tions (very  briefly  and  abbreviatedly)  as  "four  c." 

The  possession  of  four  children  is  a  natural  ex- 
planation of  three  volumes  of  juvenile  plays. 

But  wait  a  moment  I  Did  Colonel  Cummins 
write  them  wholly  for  his  youngsters'?  As  I  read 
these  little  plays,  it  seems  to  me  that  there  is  fre- 
quently an  undercurrent  of  philosophy,  truth, 
satire — what  you  will — which,  unappreciated  by 
the  youngsters  themselves,  will  make  these  house- 
hold dramas  ingratiating  to  their  parents.  At  any 
rate,  this  is  exceptional  work;  you  may  be  sure  it 
is,  for  publishers  are  not  in  the  habit  of  bringing 
out  an  author's  three  volumes  of  children's  plays 

[157] 


WHEN  WINTER  COMES  TO  MAIN  STREET 

all  at  one  stroke,  and  that  is  what  is  happening 
with  Colonel  Cummins's  little  dramas. 

What  is  there  to  say  in  advance  about  The 
Fairy  Flute^  by  Rose  Fyleman'?  No  one  of  the 
increasing  number  who  have  read  her  utterly 
charming  book  of  poems  for  children,  Fairies  and 
Chimneys^  will  need  more  than  the  breath  that 
this  book  is  coming.  I  shall  give  myself  (and  I 
think  everyone  who  reads  this)  the  pleasure  of 
quoting  a  poem  from  Fairies  and  Chimneys.  This 
will  show  those  who  do  not  know  the  work  of 
Rose  Fyleman  what  to  expect: 

PEACOCKS 

Peacocks  sweep  the  fairies'  rooms ; 
They  use  their  folded  tails  for  brooms; 
But  fairy  dust  is  brighter  far 
Than  any  mortal  colours  are ; 
And  all  about  their  tails  it  clings 
In  strange  designs  of  rounds  and  rings ; 
And  that  is  why  they  strut  about 
And  proudly  spread  their  feathers  out. 


IV 

Francis  Rolt-Wheeler  has  spent  years  at  sea, 
travelled  a  great  deal  in  the  West  Indies,  and 
South  America,  trapped  at  Hudson  Bay,  punched 
cattle  in  the  far  West,  lived  in  mining  camps, 
traversed  the  greater  part  of  the  American  conti- 
nent on  horseback,  lived  with  the  Indians  of  the 
plains  and  lived  with  the  Indians  of  the  Pueblos, 

[158] 


A  CHAPTER  FOR  CHILDREN 

was  a  journalist  for  several  years,  has  been  in 
nearly  every  country  of  the  world,  and  when  last 
heard  from  (May,  1922)  was  meandering  through 
Spain  on  his  way  to  Morocco  intending  to  take 
journeys  on  mule-back  among  the  wild  tribes  of 
the  Riff.  He  is  studying  Arabic  and  Mohamme- 
dan customs  to  prepare  himself  for  this  latest  ad- 
venture.   He  writes  boys'  books. 

Can  he  write  boys'  books?  If  a  man  of  his  ex- 
perience cannot  write  boys'  books,  then  boys' 
books  are  hopeless. 

Plotting  in  Pirate  Seas,  besides  the  thrill  of 
the  story  relating  Stuart  Garfield's  adventures 
in  Haiti,  contains  glimpses  of  the  whole  pageant 
we  call  "the  history  of  the  Spanish  Main."  There 
is  a  chapter  which  gives  an  account  of  Teach  and 
Blackbeard,  the  buccaneers.  Other  chapters  offer 
natural  history  in  connection  with  Stuart  Gar- 
field's hunt  for  his  father.  The  boy  gets  an 
inside  view  of  newspaper  work  and  a  clear  idea  of 
native  life  in  Haiti  and  of  conditions  which 
brought  about  American  intervention  on  the 
island. 

Hunting  Hidden  Treasure  in  the  Andes  is,  ex- 
plicitly, the  story  of  Julio  and  his  guidance  of  two 
North  American  boys  to  the  buried  treasure  of  the 
Incas;  but  the  book  is  much  more  than  that.  It 
gives,  with  accuracy  and  exceptional  interest,  a 
panorama  of  South  American  civilisation. 

These  are  the  first  two  volumes  of  the  "Boy 
Journalist  Series."     Two  other  books,  the  first 

[159] 


WHEN  WINTER  COMES  TO  MAIN  STREET 

two  volumes  in  the  series  called  "Romance- 
History  of  America,"  are: 

In  the  Days  Before  Columbus,  which  deals  with 
the  North  America  that  every  youngster  wants  to 
know  about — a  continent  flung  up  from  the 
ocean's  bed  and  sculptured  by  ice;  a  continent 
that  was  kept  hidden  for  centuries  from  European 
knowledge  by  the  silent  sweep  of  ocean  currents; 
a  continent  that  developed  civilisations  compara- 
ble with  the  Phoenician  and  Egyptian;  the  conti- 
nent of  the  Red  Man.  The  book  places  what  we 
customarily  call  "American  History"  in  its  proper 
perspective  by  hanging  behind  it  the  stupendous 
backdrop  of  creation  and  the  prehistoric  time. 

The  Quest  of  the  Western  World  is  not  the 
usual  story  of  Columbus,  preceded  by  a  few  allu- 
sions to  the  adventurings  of  earlier  navigators. 
Dr.  Rolt-Wheeler  has  written  a  book  which  goes 
back  to  the  days  of  Tyre  and  Sidon,  which  in- 
cludes the  core  of  the  old  Norse  and  Irish  sagas, 
and  which  comes  down  to  Columbus  with  all  the 
rich  tapestry  of  a  daring  past  unrolled  before  the 
youthful  reader.  Nor  does  the  author  stand  on 
the  letter  of  his  title;  he  tells  the  story  of  the 
Quest  both  backward  and  forward,  tying  up  the 
past  with  the  present  and  avoiding,  with  singular 
success,  the  fatal  effect  which  makes  a  child  feel : 
"All  this  was  a  long  time  ago;  it  hasn't  anything 
to  do  with  me  or  to-day." 

And  now  two  new  Rolt-Wheeler  books  are 
ready  I    Heroes  of  the  Ruins,  the  third  volume  of 

[■60] 


A  CHAPTER  FOR  CHILDREN 

the  "Boy  Journalist  Series,"  tells  of  a  fourteen- 
year-old  who  lived  for  four  years  of  war  in 
trenches  and  dugouts.  Andre,  the  Mole,  went 
from  one  company  to  another,  dodged  the  authori- 
ties and  successfully  ran  the  risks  of  death, 
emerging  at  the  end  to  take  up  the  search  for  his 
scattered  family,  from  whom  he  had  been  sepa- 
rated in  the  early  days  of  the  fighting. 

The  third  volume  in  the  "Romance-History  of 
America"  books  is  The  Coming  of  the  Peoples, 
which  tells  how  the  French,  Spanish,  English  and 
Dutch  settled  early  America. 


Olive  Roberts  Barton  is  a  sister  of  Mary  Rob- 
erts Rinehart.  When  she  taught  school  in  Pitts- 
burgh for  several  years  before  her  marriage,  she 
worked  with  children  of  all  sizes  and  ages  during 
part  of  that  time  and  found  small  children  were 
her  specialty.     She  says: 

"Working  with  them,  and  giving  out  constantly 
as  one  must  with  small  children,  was  like  casting 
bread  upon  waters.  It  came  back  to  me,  what  I 
was  giving  them,  not  after  many  days  but  at  once ; 
their  appreciation,  their  spontaneous  sympathy, 
their  love  gave  to  me  something  I  could  get  no- 
where else,  and  it  was  enriching.  I  felt  then,  as  I 
still  feel,  that  children  give  us  the  best  things  the 
world  has  to  offer,  and  my  effort  has  been  to  make 
some  return.   Twice  during  the  crises  in  my  mar- 

[161] 


WHEN  WINTER  COMES  TO  MAIN  STREET 

ried  life  I  went  back  to  the  schoolroom  for  com- 
fort. Once  after  the  death  of  one  of  my  own 
children,  when  I  had  no  others  left,  and  again 
when  my  husband  went  to  the  battle-fields  of 
France. 

"I  have  written  with  the  same  experience  as  I 
taught.  My  first  successes  were  with  adult  fiction. 
I  have  had  something  like  six  hundred  short  sto- 
ries published  by  syndicates,  and  magazine  arti- 
cles have  appeared  from  time  to  time,  but  gradu- 
ally I  realised  that  I  wanted  children  for  my  au- 
dience. Several  years  ago  I  published  Cloud  Boat 
Stories.  Later  The  Wonderful  Land  of  Up.  A 
syndicate  editor  saw  these  books  and  asked  me  to 
start  a  children's  department  for  the  five  hundred 
papers  he  served.  That  was  the  beginning  of  the 
'Twins.'  Nancy  and  Nick  were  born  two  years 
ago.  They  still  visit  their  little  friends  every 
day  in  the  columns  of  many  newspapers.  What 
a  vast  audience  I  have  I  A  million  children  I  No 
wonder  one  wishes  to  do  his  best. 

"I  have  two  children  of  my  own.  They  are  my 
critics.  What  they  do  not  like,  I  do  not  write. 
We  all  love  the  out-of-doors  and  to  us  a  bird  or  a 
little  wild  animal  is  a  fairy." 

But  when  I  try  to  say  something  about  the 
Nancy  and  Nick  series  I  find  it  has  all  been  said 
for  me  (and  said  so  much  better!)  by  that  accom- 
plished bookseller,  Candace  T.  Stevenson: 

"I  have  just  finished  all  of  the  books  by  Olive 
Roberts  Barton.    They  are  truly  spontaneous  and 

[.62] 


A  CHAPTER  FOR  CHILDREN 

delightful.  In  fact,  they  have  carried  my  small 
group  of  children  listeners  and  myself  along  as 
breathlessly  as  if  they  were  Alice  in  Wonderland 
or  Davy  and  the  Goblin.  They  are  delightful 
nonsense  with  exactly  the  right  degree  of  an  un- 
dercurrent of  ideas  which  they  can  make  use  of  in 
their  business  of  everyday  living.  Children  love 
morals  which  are  done  as  skilfully  as  the  chapter 
on  Examinations  in  Helter  Skelter  Land,  and 
Sammy  Jones,  the  Topsy  Turvy  Boy  in  Topsy 
Turvy  Land,  and  I  found  my  group  not  only  seri- 
ously discussing  them  but  putting  them  into  prac- 
tice. Speaking  of  putting  things  into  practice, 
there  is  only  one  spot  in  all  of  the  books  which 
seemed  to  me  as  if  it  might  get  some  children  into 
trouble.  The  description  of  Waspy  Weasel's 
trick  on  the  schoolmaster  in  Helter  Skelter  Land 
where  he  squeezes  bittersweet  juice  into  the 
schoolmaster's  milk  and  puts  him  to  sleep,  I  think 
would  lead  any  inquiring  mind  to  try  it. 

"The  whale  who  loved  peppermints,  Torty 
Turtle  with  his  seagull's  wings  on,  the  adventures 
of  the  children  when  they  help  Mr.  Tingaling  col- 
lect the  rents — this  isn't  the  same  old  stuff  of  the 
endless  'bedtime'  stories  which  are  dealt  out  to  us 
by  the  yard.  These  animals  are  real  people  with 
the  tinge  which  takes  real  imagination  to  paint. 

"At  first  I  was  disappointed  in  the  pictures,  but 
as  I  read  on  I  came  to  like  those  also,  and  I  found 
that  they  were  wholly  satisfactory  to  the  children. 
The  picture  of  the  thousand  legger  with  all  his 

[163] 


WHEN  WINTER  COMES  TO  MAIN  STREET 

shoes  on  is  entrancing,  and  poor  Mrs.  Frog  cutting 
out  clothes  because  the  dressmaker  had  made  them 
for  the  children  when  they  were  still  tadpoles. 
These  books  ought  to  come  like  an  oasis  in  the 
desert  to  the  poor-jaded-reading-aloud-parent." 


VI 

At  Mount  Pocono,  Pennsylvania,  in  a  small 
house  built  from  her  own  plans  and  standing 
2,000  feet  above  sea  level,  in  a  growing  shade  of 
trees,  lives  Marion  Ames  Taggart,  author  of  the 
Jack-in-the-Box  series — four  children's  books  that 
renew  their  popularity  every  year.    They  are : 

at  greenacres 
the  gueer  little  man 
the  bottle  imp 
poppy's  pluck 

At  Greenacres  and  The  Queer  Little  Man  are 
particularly  good  to  read  aloud  to  a  group  of  chil- 
dren; they  really  are  the  mystery  and  detective 
story  diluted  for  children. 

Miss  Taggart,  an  only  child  and  extremely  frail 
in  childhood,  had  the  good  fortune  as  a  conse- 
quence of  ill-health  to  be  educated  entirely  at 
home.  As  a  result  she  had  free  access  to  really 
good  books — for  the  home  was  in  Haverhill, 
Mass.  She  began  to  carry  out  a  cherished  wish  to 
write  for  young  girls  in  1901,  when  her  first  book 
(for  girls  of  about  sixteen)  was  published  in  St. 

[164] 


A  CHAPTER  FOR  CHILDREN 

Nicholas.  She  has  a  habit  of  transplanting  four- 
footed  friends  in  her  stories  under  their  own 
names — as  where,  in  the  Jack-in-the-Box  series, 
one  finds  Pincushion,  Miss  Taggart's  own  plump 
grey  kitten. 

What  will  the  children  say  to  A  Wonder  Book^ 
by  Nathaniel  Plawthorne,  with  pictures  in  color 
by  Arthur  Rackham*?  I  do  not  know  why  I  ask 
this  rhetorical  question,  which,  like  most  questions 
of  the  sort,  should  be  followed  by  exclamation 
points !  There  will  be  exclamations,  at  any  rate, 
over  this  book,  surely  the  most  beautiful  of  the 
year,  perhaps  of  several  years.  The  quality  of 
Arthur  Rackham's  work  is  well  known,  its  artistic 
value  is  undisputedly  of  the  very  highest.  And 
Hawthorne's  text — the  story  of  the  Gorgon's 
head,  the  tale  of  Midas,  Tanglewood,  and  the 
rest — is  of  the  finest  literary,  poetic  and  imagina- 
tive worth. 


[165] 


Chapter  XI 
COBB'S  FOURTH  DIMENSION 


AS  a  three-dimensional  writer,  Irvin  S.  Cobb 
has  long  been  among  the  American  literary 
heavy-weights.  Now  that  he  has  acquired  a 
fourth  dimension,  the  time  has  come  for  a  new 
measurement  of  his  excellences  as  an  author. 

Among  those  excellences  I  know  a  man  (respon- 
sible for  the  manufacture  of  Doran  books)  who 
holds  that  Cobb  is  the  greatest  living  American 
author.  The  reason  for  this  is  severely  logical, 
to  wit:  Irvin  Cobb  always  sends  in  his  copj  in  a 
perfect  condition.  His  copy  goes  to  the  manufac- 
turer of  books  with  a  correctly  written  title  page, 
a  correctly  written  copyright  page,  the  exact  word- 
ing of  the  dedication,  an  accurate  table  of  con- 
tents, and  so  on,  all  the  way  through  the  manu- 
script. Moreover,  when  proofs  are  sent  to  Mr. 
Cobb,  he  makes  very  few  changes.  He  reduces  to 
a  minimum  the  difficulties  of  a  printer  and  his 
changes  are  always  perceptibly  changes  for  the 
better. 

But  I  don't  suppose  that  any  of  this  would  re- 
[.66] 


IRVIN   S.   COBB 


[167] 


COBB'S  FOURTH  DIMENSION 

dound  to  Cobb's  credit  in  the  eyes  of  a  literary 
critic. 

And  to  return  to  the  subject  of  the  fourth  di- 
mension: My  difficulty  is  to  know  in  just  what 
direction  that  fourth  dimension  lies.  Is  the  fourth 
dimension  of  Cobb  as  a  novelist  or  as  an  auto- 
biographer?  It  puzzles  me  to  tell  inasmuch  as 
I  have  before  me  the  manuscripts  of  Mr.  Cobb's 
first  novel,  J.  Poindexter^  Colored^  and  his  very 
first  autobiography,   a  volume  called  Stickfuls. 

The  title  of  Stickfuls  will  probably  not  be 
charged  with  meaning  to  people  unfamiliar  with 
newspaper  work.  Perhaps  it  is  worth  while  to 
explain  that  in  the  old  days,  when  type  was  set 
by  hand,  the  printer  had  a  little  metal  holder 
called  a  "stick."  When  he  had  set  a  dozen  lines 
— more  or  less — he  had  a  "stickful."  Although 
very  little  type  is  now  set  by  hand,  the  stick  as  a 
measure  of  space  is  still  in  good  standing.  The 
reporter  presents  himself  at  the  city  desk,  tells 
what  he  has  got,  and  is  told  by  the  city  editor, 
"Write  a  stickful."  Or,  "Write  two  sticks." 
And  so  on. 

Stickfuls  is  not  so  much  the  story  of  Cobb's  life 
as  the  story  of  people  he  has  met  and  places  he  has 
been,  told  in  a  series  of  extremely  interesting 
chapters — told  in  a  leisurely  and  delightful 
fashion  of  reminiscence  by  a  natural  association 
of  one  incident  with  another  and  one  person  with 
someone  else.  For  example,  Cobb  as  a  newspaper 
man,  covered  a  great  many  trials  in  court;  and 

[169] 


WHEN  WINTER  COMES  TO  MAIN  STREET 

one  of  the  chapters  of  Stickfuls  tells  of  famous 
trials  he  has  attended. 


11 

Now  about  this  novel  of  Cobb's:  Jeff  Poin- 
dexter  will  be  remembered  by  all  the  readers  of 
Mr.  Cobb's  short  stories  as  the  negro  body  servant 
of  old  Judge  Priest.  In  J.  Pomdexter,  Colored^ 
we  have  Jeff  coming  to  New  York.  Of  course, 
New  York  seen  through  the  eyes  of  a  genuine 
Southern  darkey  is  a  New  York  most  of  us  have 
never  seen.  There's  nothing  like  sampling,  so  I 
will  let  you  begin  the  book : 

"My  name  is  J.  Poindexter.  But  the  full  name 
is  Jefferson  Exodus  Poindexter,  Colored.  But 
most  always  in  general  I  has  been  known  as  Jeff 
for  short.  The  Jefferson  part  is  for  a  white  family 
which  my  folks  worked  for  them  one  time  before 
I  was  born,  and  the  Exodus  is  because  my  mammy 
craved  I  should  be  named  after  somebody  out  of 
the  Bible.    How  I  comes  to  write  this  is  this  way : 

"It  seems  like  my  experiences  here  in  New  York 
is  liable  to  be  such  that  one  of  my  white  gentleman 
friends  he  says  to  me  I  should  take  pen  in  hand 
and  write  them  out  just  the  way  they  happen  and 
at  the  time  they  is  happening,  or  right  soon  after- 
wards, whilst  the  memory  of  them  is  clear  in  my 
brain;  and  then  he's  see  if  he  can't  get  them 
printed  somewheres,  which  on  the  top  of  the  other 
things  which  I  now  is,  will  make  me  an  author 

[170] 


COBB'S  FOURTH  DIMENSION 

with  money  coming  in  steady.  He  says  to  me  he 
will  fix  up  the  spelling  wherever  needed  and  at- 
tend to  the  punctuating;  but  all  the  rest  of  it  will 
be  my  own  just  like  I  puts  it  down.  I  reads  and 
writes  very  well  but  someway  I  never  learned  to 
puncture.  So  the  places  where  it  is  necessary  to 
be  punctual  in  order  to  make  good  sense  and  keep 
everything  regulation  and  make  the  talk  sound 
natural  is  his  doings  and  also  some  of  the  spelling. 
But  everything  else  is  mine  and  I  asks  credit. 

"My  coming  to  New  York,  in  the  first  place,  is 
sort  of  a  sudden  thing  which  starts  here  about  a 
month  before  the  present  time,  I  has  been  work- 
ing for  Judge  Priest  for  going  on  sixteen  years  and 
is  expecting  to  go  on  working  for  him  as  long  as  we 
can  get  along  together  all  right,  which  it  seems 
like  from  appearances  that  ought  to  be  always. 
But  after  he  gives  up  being  circuit  judge  on  ac- 
count of  him  getting  along  so  in  age  he  gets  sort 
of  fretful  by  reasons  of  him  not  having  much  to 
do  any  more  and  most  of  his  own  friends  having 
died  off  on  him.  When  the  State  begins  going 
Republican  about  once  in  so  often,  he  says  to  me, 
kind  of  half  joking,  he's  a  great  mind  to  pull  up 
stakes  and  move  off  and  go  live  somewheres  else. 
But  pretty  soon  after  that  the  whole  country  goes 
dry  and  then  he  says  to  me  there  just  naturally 
ain't  no  fitten  place  left  for  him  to  go  without  he 
leaves  the  United  States." 

It  seems  that  Judge  Priest  finally  succumbed  to 
an  invitation  to  visit  Bermuda,  a  place  where  a 

[171] 


WHEN  WINTER  COMES  TO  MAIN  STREET 

gentleman  can  still  raise  a  thirst  and  satisfy  it. 
Jeff  could  not  stand  the  house  without  the  Judge 
in  it;  and  when  an  opportunity  came  to  go  to  New 
York,  Jeff  went. 


in 

The  biographer  of  Cobb  is  Robert  H,  Davis, 
editor  of  Munsey's  Magazine,  whose  authorita- 
tive account  I  take  pleasure  in  reprinting  here — 
the  more  so  because  it  appeared  some  time  ago  in 
a  booklet  which  is  now  out  of  print.  Mr.  Davis's 
article  was  first  printed  in  The  Sun,  New  York: 

"Let  me  deal  with  this  individual  in  a  cate- 
gorical way.  Most  biographers  prefer  to  mutilate 
their  canvas  with  a  small  daub  which  purports  to 
be  a  sketch  of  the  most  significant  event  in  the  life 
of  the  accused.  Around  this  it  is  their  custom  to 
paint  smaller  and  less  impressive  scenes,  blending 
the  whole  by  placing  it  in  a  large  gilded  frame, 
which,  for  obvious  reasons,  costs  more  than  the 
picture — and  it  is  worth  more.  Pardon  me, 
therefore,  if  I  creep  upon  Mr.  Cobb  from  the 
lower  left-hand  corner  of  the  canvas  and  chase 
him  across  the  open  space  as  rapidly  as  possible. 
It  is  not  for  me  to  indicate  when  the  big  events 
in  his  life  will  occur  or  to  lay  the  milestones  of  the 
route  along  which  he  will  travel.  I  know  only 
that  they  are  in  the  future,  and  that,  regardless  of 
any  of  his  achievements  in  the  past,  Irvin  Cobb 
has  not  yet  come  into  his  own. 

[172]  — ■> 


COBB'S  FOURTH  DIMENSION 

"The  first  glimpse  I  had  of  him  was  in  a  half- 
tone portrait  in  the  New  York  Evening  World 
five  years  ago.  This  picture  hung  pendant-like 
from  a  title  which  read  'Through  Funny  Glasses, 
by  Irvin  S.  Cobb.'  It  was  the  face  of  a  man 
scarred  with  uncertainty;  an  even  money  propo- 
sition that  he  had  either  just  emerged  from  the 
Commune  or  was  about  to  enter  it.  Grief  was 
written  on  the  brow;  more  than  written,  it  was 
emblazoned.  The  eyes  were  heavy  with  inex- 
pressible sadness.  The  corners  of  the  mouth  were 
drooped,  heightening  the  whole  effect  of  incom- 
prehensible depression.  Quickly  I  turned  to  the 
next  page  among  the  stock  quotations,  where  I  got 
my  depression  in  a  blanket  form.  The  concen- 
trated Cobb  kind  was  too  much  for  me. 

"A  few  days  later  I  came  suddenly  upon  the 
face  again.  The  very  incongruity  of  its  alliance 
with  laughter  overwhelmed  me,  and  wonderingly 
I  read  what  he  had  written,  not  once,  but  every 
day,  always  with  the  handicap  of  that  half-tone. 
If  Cobb  were  an  older  man,  I  would  go  on  the  wit- 
ness stand  and  swear  that  the  photograph  was 
made  when  he  was  witnessing  the  Custer  Massa- 
cre or  the  passing  of  Geronimo  through  the  winter 
quarters  of  his  enemies.  Notwithstanding,  he 
supplied  my  week's  laughter. 

"Digression  this: 

"After  Bret  Harte  died,  many  stories  were  writ- 
ten by  San  Franciscans  who  knew  him  when  he 
first  put  in  an  appearance  on  the  Pacific  Coast. 

[173] 


WHEN  WINTER  COIVIES  TO  MAIN  STREET 

One  contemporary  described  minutely  how  Bret 
would  come  silently  up  the  stairs  of  the  old  Alta 
office,  glide  down  the  dingy  hallway  through  the 
exchange  room,  and  seat  himself  at  the  now  his- 
toric desk.  It  took  Bret  fifteen  minutes  to  sharpen 
a  lead  pencil,  one  hour  for  sober  reflection,  and 
three  hours  to  write  a  one-stick  paragraph,  after 
which  he  would  carefully  tear  it  up,  gaze  out  of 
the  window  down  the  Golden  Gate,  and  go  home. 

"He  repeated  this  formula  the  following  day, 
and  at  the  end  of  the  week  succeeded  in  turning 
out  three  or  four  sticks  which  he  considered  fit  to 
print.  In  later  years,  after  fame  had  sought  him 
out  and  presented  him  with  a  fur-lined  overcoat, 
which  I  am  bound  to  say  Bret  knew  how  to  wear, 
the  files  of  the  Alta  were  ransacked  for  the  pearls 
he  had  dropped  in  his  youth.  A  few  gems  were 
identified,  a  very  few.  Beside  this  entire  printed 
collection  the  New  England  Primer  would  have 
looked  like  a  set  of  encyclopedias.  Bret  worked 
slowly,  methodically,  brilliantly,  and  is  an  im- 
perishable figure  in  American  letters. 

"Returning  to  Cobb:  He  has  already  written 
twenty  times  more  than  Bret  Harte  turned  out 
during  his  entire  career.  He  has  made  more  peo- 
ple laugh  and  written  better  short  stories.  He  has 
all  of  Harte's  subtle  and  delicate  feeling,  and 
will,  if  he  is  spared,  write  better  novels  about  the 
people  of  today  than  Bret  Harte,  with  all  his 
genius  and  imagination,  wrote  around  the  Pio- 
neers.    I  know  of  no  single  instance  where  one 

vK"  [174] 


COBB'S  FOURTH  DIMENSION 

man  has  shown  such  fecundity  and  quality  as  Irvin 
Cobb  has  so  far  evinced,  and  it  is  my  opinion  that 
his  complete  works  at  fifty  will  contain  more  good    '^ 
humour,  more  good  short  stories,  and  at  least  one    . 
bigger  novel  than  the  works  of  any  other  single 
contemporaneous  figure. 

"He  was  bom  in  Paducah,  Kentucky,  in  June, 
'76.  I  have  taken  occasion  to  look  into  the  matter 
and  find  that  his  existence  was  peculiarly  varied. 
He  belonged  to  one  of  those  old  Southern  families 
— there  being  no  new  Southern  families — and 
passed  through  the  public  schools  sans  incident. 
At  the  age  of  sixteen  he  went  into  the  office 
of  The  Paducah  Daily  News  as  a  reportorial 
cub. 

"He  was  first  drawn  to  daily  journalism  be- 
cause he  yearned  to  be  an  illustrator.  Indeed,  he 
went  so  far  as  to  write  local  humorous  stories, 
illustrating  them  himself.  The  pictures  must 
have  been  pretty  bad,  although  they  served  to 
keep  people  from  saying  that  his  literature  was 
the  worst  thing  in  the  paper. 

"Resisting  all  efforts  of  the  editor,  the  stock- 
holders and  the  subscribers  of  The  Paducah  Daily 
News,  he  remained  barricaded  behind  his  desk 
until  his  nineteenth  year,  when  he  was  crowned 
with  a  two-dollar  raise  and  a  secondary  caption 
under  his  picture  which  read  'The  Youngest 
Managing  Editor  of  a  Daily  Paper  in  the  United 
States.' 

"If  Cobb  was  consulted  in  the  matter  of  this 

[175] 


WHEN  WINTER  COMES  TO  MAIN  STREET 

review,  he  would  like  to  have  these  preliminaries 
expunged  from  his  biography.  But  the  public  is 
entitled  to  the  details. 

"It  is  also  true  that  he  stacked  up  more  libel 
suits  than  a  newspaper  of  limited  capital  with  a 
staff  of  local  attorneys  could  handle  before  he 
moved  to  Louisville,  where,  for  three  years,  he 
was  staff  correspondent  of  The  Evening  Post.  It 
was  here  that  Cobb  discovered  how  far  a  humorist 
could  go  without  being  invited  to  step  out  at  6 
a.m.  and  rehearse  'The  Rivals'  with  real  horse- 
pistols. 

"The  first  sobering  episode  in  his  life  occurred 
when  the  Goebel  murder  echoed  out  of  Louisville. 
He  reported  this  historic  assassination  and  cov- 
ered the  subsequent  trials  in  the  Georgetown  court 
house.  Doubtless  the  seeds  of  tragedy,  which 
mark  some  of  his  present  work,  were  sown  here. 
Those  who  are  familiar  with  his  writings  know 
that  occasionally  he  sets  his  cap  and  bells  aside 
and  dips  his  pen  into  the  very  darkness  of  life. 
We  find  it  particularly  in  three  of  his  short  sto- 
ries entitled  'An  Occurrence  Up  a  Side  Street,' 
'The  Belled  Buzzard,'  and  'Fishhead.'  Nothing 
better  can  be  found  in  Edgar  Allan  Poe's  collected 
works.  One  is  impressed  not  only  with  the  beauty 
and  simplicity  of  his  prose,  but  with  the  tremen- 
dous power  of  his  tragic  conceptions  and  his  art 
in  dealing  with  terror.  There  appears  to  be  no 
phase  of  human  emotion  beyond  his  pen.  With- 
out an  effort  he  rises  from  the  level  of  actualities 

[176] 


COBB'S  FOURTH  DIMENSION 

to  the  high  plane  of  boundless  imagination,  in- 
voking laughter  or  tears  at  will. 

"After  his  Louisville  experience  Cobb  married 
and  returned  to  Paducah  to  be  managing  editor  of 
The  Democrat.  Either  Paducah  or  The  Demo- 
crat got  on  his  nerves  and,  after  a  comparison  of 
the  Paducah  school  of  journalism  with  the  metro- 
politan brand,  he  turned  his  face  (see  Evening 
World  half-tone)  in  the  direction  of  New  York, 
buoyed  up  by  the  illusion  that  he  was  needed  there 
along  with  other  reforms.         » 

"He  arrived  at  the  gates  of  Manhattan  full  of 
hope,  and  visited  every  newspaper  office  in  New 
York  without  receiving  encouragement  to  call 
again.  Being  resourceful  he  retired  to  his  suite  of 
hall  bedrooms  on  57th  Street  West  and  wrote  a 
personal  note  to  every  city  editor  in  New  York, 
setting  forth  in  each  instance  the  magnificent  in- 
tellectual proportions  of  the  epistolographer.  The 
next  morning,  by  mail,  Cobb  had  offers  for  a  job 
from  five  of  them.    He  selected  The  Evening  Sun. 

"At  about  that  time  the  Portsmouth  Peace  Con- 
ference convened,  and  The  Sun  sent  the  Paducah 
party  to  help  cover  the  proceedings.  Upon  arriv- 
ing at  Portsmouth,  Cobb  cast  his  experienced  eye 
over  the  situation,  discovered  that  the  story  was 
already  well  covered  by  a  large  coterie  of  compe- 
tent, serious-minded  young  men,  and  went  into 
action  to  write  a  few  columns  daily  on  subjects 
having  no  bearing  whatsoever  on  the  conference. 
These  stories  were  written  in  the  ebullition  of 

[177] 


WHEN  WINTER  COMES  TO  MAIN  STREET 

youth,  inspired  by  the  ecstasy  which  rises  from 
the  possession  of  a  steady  job;  a  perfect  deluge 
from  the  well  springs  of  spontaneity.  There 
wasn't  a  single  fact  in  the  entire  series,  and  yet 
The  Sun  syndicated  these  stories  throughout  the 
United  States.  All  they  possessed  was  I-N-D-I- 
V-I-D-U-A-L-I-T-Y. 

"At  the  end  of  three  weeks,  Cobb  returned  to 
New  York,  to  find  that  he  could  have  a  job  on  any 
newspaper  in  it.  This  brings  him  to  The  Evening 
World,  the  half-tone  engraving,  which  was  the 
first  glimpse  I  had  of  him,  and  the  dawn  of  his 
subsequent  triumphs.  For  four  years  he  supplied 
the  evening  edition  and  The  Sunday  World  with 
a  comic  feature,  to  say  nothing  of  a  comic  opera, 
written  to  order  in  five  days.  The  absence  of  a 
guillotine  in  New  York  State  accounts  for  his 
escape  for  this  latter  offence.  Nevertheless,  in  all 
else  his  standard  of  excellence  ascended.  He  re- 
ported the  Thaw  trial  in  long-hand,  writing  nearly 
600,000  words  of  testimony  and  observation,  es- 
tablishing a  new  style  for  reporting  trials,  and 
gave  further  evidence  of  his  power.  That  per- 
formance will  stand  out  in  the  annals  of  Ameri- 
can journalism  as  one  of  the  really  big  reportorial 
achievements. 

"At  about  this  juncture  in  his  career  Cobb 
opened  a  door  to  the  past,  reached  in  and  took 
out  some  of  the  recollections  of  his  youth.  These 
he  converted  into  'The  Escape  of  Mr.  Trimm,' 
his  first  short  fiction  story.     It  appeared  in  The 

[178] 


COBB'S  FOURTH  DIMENSION 

Saturday  Evening  Post.  The  court  scene  was 
so  absolutely  true  to  life,  so  minutely  perfect 
in  its  atmosphere,  that  a  Supreme  Court  judge 
signed  an  unsolicited  and  voluntary  note  for  pub- 
lication, in  which  he  said  that  Mr.  Cobb  had  re- 
ported with  marvelous  accuracy  and  fulness  a 
murder  trial  at  which  His  Honour  had  presided. 

"Gelett  Burgess,  in  a  lecture  at  Columbia  Col- 
lege, said  that  Cobb  was  one  of  the  ten  great 
American  humourists.  Cobb  ought  to  demand  a 
recount.  There  are  not  ten  humourists  in  the 
world,  although  Cobb  is  one  of  them.  The  ex- 
traordinary thing  about  Cobb  is  that  he  can  turn 
a  burst  of  laughter  into  a  funeral  oration,  a 
snicker  into  a  shudder  and  a  smile  into  a  crime^ 
He  writes  in  octaves,  striking  instinctively  all  the 
chords  of  humour,  tragedy,  pathos  and  romance 
with  either  hand.  Observe  this  man  in  his  thirty- 
ninth  year,  possessing  gifts  the  limitations  of 
which  even  he  himself  has  not  yet  recognised. 

"In  appraising  a  genius,  we  must  consider  the 
man's  highest  achievement,  and  in  comparing  him 
with  others  the  verdict  must  be  reached  only  upon 
consideration  of  his  best  work.  For  scintillant 
wit  and  unflagging  good  humour,  read  his  essays 
on  the  Teeth,  the  Hair  and  the  Stomach,  If  you 
desire  a  perfect  blending  of  all  that  is  essential 
to  a  short  story,  read  'The  Escape  of  Mr.  Trimm' 
or  'Words  and  Music'  If  you  are  in  search  of 
pure,  unadulterated,  boundless  terror,  the  grue- 
some quality,  the  blackness  of  despair  and  the  fear 

[179] 


WHEN  WINTER  COMES  TO  MAIN  STREET 

of  death  in  the  human  conscience,  'Fishhead,' 
'The  Belled  Buzzard'  or  'An  Occurrence  Up  a 
Side  Street'  will  enthrall  you. 

"Thus  in  Irvin  Cobb  we  find  Mark  Twain,  Bret 
Harte  and  Edgar  Allan  Poe  at  their  best.  Reckon 
with  these  potentialities  in  the  future.  Speculate, 
if  you  will,  upon  the  sort  of  a  novel  that  is  bound, 
some  day,  to  come  from  his  pen.  There  seem  to 
be  no  pinnacles  along  the  horizon  of  the  literary 
future  that  are  beyond  him.  If  he  uses  his  pen 
for  an  Alpine  stock,  the  Matterhorn  is  his. 

"There  are  critics  and  reviewers  who  do  not 
entirely  agree  with  me  concerning  Cobb.  But 
they  will. 

"As  I  write  these  lines  I  recall  a  conversation  I 
had  with  Irvin  Cobb  on  the  hurricane  deck  of  a 
Fifth  Avenue  'bus  one  bleak  November  afternoon, 
igi  1.  We  had  met  at  the  funeral  of  Joseph  Pu- 
litzer, in  whose  employ  we  had  served  in  the  past. 

"Cobb  was  in  a  reflective  mood,  chilled  to  the 
marrow,  and  not  particularly  communicative. 

"At  the  junction  of  Fifth  Avenue  and  Forty- 
second  Street  we  were  held  up  by  congested  traffic. 
After  a  little  manoeuvring  on  the  part  of  a 
mounted  policeman,  the  Fifth  Avenue  tide  flowed 
through  and  onward  again. 

"  'It  reminds  me  of  a  river,'  said  Cobb,  'into 
which  all  humanity  is  drawn.  Some  of  these  peo- 
ple think  because  they  are  walking  up-stream  they 
are  getting  out  of  it.  But  they  never  escape.  The 
current  is  at  work  on  them.     Some  day  they  will 

[180] 


COBB'S  FOURTH  DIMENSION 

get  tired  and  go  down  again,  and  finally  pass  out 
to  sea.  It  is  the  same  with  real  rivers.  They  do 
not  flow  up-hill.' 

"He  lapsed  into  silence. 

"  'What's  on  your  mind'?'  I  inquired. 

"  'Nothing  in  particular,'  he  said,  scanning  the 
banks  of  the  great  municipal  stream,  'except  that 
I  intend  to  write  a  novel  some  day  about  a  boy 
bom  at  the  headwaters.  Gradually  he  floats  down 
through  the  tributaries,  across  the  valleys,  swings 
into  the  main  stream,  and  docks  finally  at  one  of 
the  cities  on  its  banks.  This  particular  youth  was 
a  great  success — in  the  beginning.  Every  door 
was  open  to  him.  He  had  position,  brains,  and 
popularity  to  boot.  He  married  brilliantly.  And 
then  The  Past,  a  trivial,  unimportant  Detail, 
lifted  its  head  and  barked  at  him.  He  was  too 
sensitive  to  bark  back.  Thereupon  it  bit  him  and 
he  collapsed.' 

"Again  Cobb  ceased  talking.  For  some  reason 
— indefinable — I  respected  his  silence.  Two 
blocks  further  down  he  took  up  the  thread  of  his 
story  again: 

"  ' — and  one  evening,  just  about  sundown,  a 
river  hand,  sitting  on  a  stringpiece  of  a  dock,  saw 
a  derby  hat  bobbing  in  the  muddy  Mississippi, 
floating  unsteadily  but  surely  into  the  Gulf  of 
Mexico.' 

"As  is  his  habit,  Cobb  tugged  at  his  lower  lip. 

"  'What  are  you  going  to  call  this  novel*?' 

"  'I  don't  know.    What  do  you  think *?' 

[181] 


WHEN  WINTER  COMES  TO  MAIN  STREET 

"'Why  not  "The  River"? 

"  'Very  well,  I'll  call  it  "The  River."  ' 

"He  scrambled  from  his  seat.  'I'm  docking  at 
Twenty-seventh  Street.  Good-bye.  Keep  your 
hat  out  of  the  water.' 

"Laboriously  he  made  his  way  down  the 
winding  staircase  from  the  upper  deck,  dropped 
flat-footed  on  the  asphalt  pavement,  turned  his 
collar  up,  leaned  into  the  gust  of  wind  from  the 
South,  and  swung  into  the  cross-current  of  an- 
other stream. 

"I  doubt  if  he  has  any  intention  of  calling  his 
story  'The  River.'  But  I  am  sure  the  last  chapter 
will  contain  something  about  an  unhappy  wretch 
who  wore  a  derby  hat  at  the  moment  he  walked 
hand  in  hand  with  his  miserable  Past  into  the 
Father  of  Waters, 

"For  those  who  wish  to  know  something  of  his 
personal  side,  I  can  do  no  better  than  to  record 
his  remarks  to  a  stranger,  who,  in  my  presence, 
asked  Irvin  Cobb,  without  knowing  to  whom  he 
was  speaking,  what  kind  of  a  person  Cobb  was. 

"  'Well,  to  be  perfectly  frank  with  you,'  re- 
plied the  Faducah  prodigy,  'Cobb  is  related  to 
my  wife  by  marriage,  and  if  you  don't  object  to  a 
brief  sketch,  with  all  the  technicalities  eliminated, 
I  should  say  in  appearance  he  is  rather  bulky, 
standing  six  feet  high,  not  especially  beautiful,  a 
light  roan  in  colour,  with  a  black  mane.  His  fig- 
ure is  undecided,  but  might  be  called  bunchy  in 
places.     He  belongs  to  several  clubs,  including 

[182] 


COBB'S  FOURTH  DIMENSION 

The  Yonkers  Pressing  Club  and  The  Park  Hill 
Democratic  Marching  Club,  and  has  always,  like 
his  father,  who  was  a  Confederate  soldier,  voted 
the  Democratic  ticket.  He  has  had  one  wife  and 
one  child  and  still  has  them.  In  religion  he  is  an 
Innocent   Bystander.' 

"Could  anything  be  fuller  than  this*?" 


IV 

It  was  Mr.  Davis,  also,  who  in  the  New  York 
Herald  of  April  23,  1922,  made  public  the  evi- 
dence for  the  following  box  score : 

1st  2nd 

Best  Writer  of  Humour.  ....          Cobb  

Best  All-Round  Reporter ....          Cobb  

Best  Local  Colourist Cobb  

Best  in  Tales  of  Horror Cobb  

Best  Writer  of  Negro  Stories Cobb 

Best  Writer  of  Light  Cobb  and 

Humorous   Fiction    Tarkington  Harry  Leon 

Wilson 

Best  Teller  of  Anecdotes Cobb  Cobb 

"Not  long  ago  a  group  of  ten  literary  men — 
editors,  critics,  readers  and  writers — were  dining 
together.  Discussion  arose  as  to  the  respective 
and  comparative  merits  of  contemporaneous  pop- 
ular writers.  It  was  decided  that  each  man  pres- 
ent should  set  down  upon  a  slip  of  paper  his  first, 

[183] 


WHEN  WINTER  COMES  TO  MAIN  STREET 

second  and  third  choices  in  various  specified  but 
widely  diversified  fields  of  literary  endeavour,  and 
that  then  the  results  should  be  compared.  Ad- 
mirers of  Cobb's  work  will  derive  a  peculiar  sat- 
isfaction from  the  outcome.  It  was  found  that  as 
a  writer  of  humour  he  had  won  first  place ;  that  as 
an  all  round  reporter  he  had  first  place;  that  as  a 
handler  of  local  colour  in  the  qualified  sense  of  a 
power  of  apt,  swiftly-done,  journalistic  descrip- 
tion, he  had  first  place.  He  also  had  first  place  as 
a  writer  of  horror  yarns.  He  won  second  place 
as  a  writer  of  darkey  stories.  He  tied  with  Harry 
Leon  Wilson  for  second  place  as  a  writer  of  light 
humorous  fiction,  Tarkington  being  given  first 
place  in  this  category.  As  a  teller  of  anecdotes  he 
won  by  acclamation  over  all  contenders.  Alto- 
gether his  name  appeared  on  eight  of  the  ten  lists." 
Cobb  lives  at  Ossining,  New  York.  He  de- 
scribes himself  as  lazy,  but  convinces  no  one.  He 
likes  to  go  fishing.  But  he  has  never  written  any 
fish  stories. 


Books 

by  Irvin  S.  Cobb 

back  home 

cobb's  anatomy 

the  escape  of  mr.  trimm 

cobb's  bill  of  fare 

roughing  it  de  luxe 

europe  revised 

[184] 


COBB'S  FOURTH  DIMENSION 

PATHS  OF  GLORY 

OLD  JUDGE   PRIEST 

FIBBLE,    D.D. 

SPEAKING  OF  OPERATIONS 

LOCAL  COLOR 

SPEAKING  OF  PRUSSIANS 

THOSE  TIMES  AND  THESE 

THE   GLORY  OF  THE   COMING 

THE  THUNDERS  OF  SILENCE 

THE  LIFE  OF  THE  PARTY 

FROM    PLACE  TO  PLACE 

"OH,    WELL,    YOU    KNOW    HOW    WOMEN    ARE  I" 

THE  ABANDONED  FARMERS 

SUNDRY  ACCOUNTS 

A  PLEA  FOR  OLD  CAP  COLLIER 

ONE  THIRD  OFF 

EATING  IN  TWO  OR  THREE    LANGUAGES 

J.   POINDEXTER,  COLORED 

STICKFULS 

Plays: 

FUNABASHI 
BUSYBODY 
BACK  HOME 
SERGEANT   BAGBY 
GUILTY  AS  CHARGED 
UNDER  SENTENCE 


[185] 


WHEN  WINTER  COMES  TO  MAIN  STREET 

Sources 
on  Irvin  S.  Cobb 

Who's  Who  in  America. 

Who's  Cobb  and  Why?     Booklet  published  by 

GEORGE  H.  DORAN  COMPANY.     (Out  of  print). 

Article  by  Robert  H.  Davis  in  the  book  section 

of    THE    NEW    YORK    HERALD    foF    April    23, 
1922. 

Robert  H.  Davis,  280  Broadway,  New  York. 


[186] 


Chapter  XII 
PLACES  TO  GO 


THE  book  by  Thomas  Burke  called  More 
Litnehouse  Nights  was  published  in  Eng- 
land under  the  title  of  Whispering  Windows.  At 
the  time  of  its  publication,  Mr.  Burke  wrote  the 
following : 

"The  most  disconcerting  question  that  an 
author  can  be  asked,  and  often  is  asked,  is :  'Why 
did  you  write  that  book^'  The  questioners  do  not 
want  an  answer  to  that  immediate  question;  but 
to  the  implied  question:  'Why  don't  you  write 
some  other  kind  of  book'?'  To  either  question 
there  is  but  one  answer:    because, 

"Every  writer  is  thus  challenged.  The  writer 
of  comic  stories  is  asked  why  he  doesn't  write 
something  really  serious.  The  novelist  is  asked 
why  he  doesn't  write  short  stories,  and  the  short- 
story  writer  is  asked  why  he  doesn't  write  a  novel. 
To  me  people  say,  impatiently:  'Why  don't  you 
write  happy  stories  about  ordinary  people  *?'  And 
the  only  answer  I  can  give  them  is:  'Because  I 
can't.     I  present  life  as  I  see  it.' 

"I  am  an  ordinary  man,  but  I  don't  understand 

[187] 


WHEN  WINTER  COMES  TO  MAIN  STREET 

ordinary  men.  I  am  at  a  loss  with  them.  But 
with  the  people  of  whom  I  write  I  have  a  fellow- 
feeling.  I  know  them  and  their  sorrows  and  their 
thwarted  strivings  and  I  understand  their  aber- 
rations. I  cannot  see  the  romance  of  the<  mer- 
chant or  the  glamour  of  the  duke's  daughter. 
They  do  not  permit  themselves  to  be  seized  and 
driven  by  passion  and  imagination.  Instead  they 
are  driven  by  fear,  which  they  have  misnamed 
Common-sense.  These  people  thwart  themselves, 
while  my  people  are  thwarted  by  malign  circum- 
stance. 

"Often  I  have  taken  other  men  to  the  dire  dis- 
tricts about  which  I  write,  and  they  have  re- 
mained unmoved;  they  have  seen,  in  their  phrase, 
nothing  to  get  excited  about.  Well,  one  cannot 
help  that  kind  of  person.  One  cannot  give  under- 
standing to  the  man  who  regards  the  flogging  of 
children  as  a  joke,  or  to  whom  a  broken  love-story 
is,'  in  low  life,  a  theme  for  smoking-room  anec- 
dotes. 

"Wherever  there  are  human  creatures  there  are 
beauty  and  courage  and  sacrifice.  The  stories  in 
Whispering  Windows  deal  with  human  creatures, 
thieves,  drunkards,  prostitutes,  each  of  whom  is 
striving  for  happiness  in  his  or  her  way,  and  miss- 
ing it,  as  most  of  us  do.  Each  has  hidden  away 
some  fine  streak  of  character,  some  mark  below 
which  he  will  not  go.  And — they  are  alive. 
They  Jiave  met  life  in  its  ugliest  phases,  and 
fought  it. 

[1 88] 


PLACES  TO  GO 

"My  answer,  then,  to  the  charge  of  writing 
'loathsome'  stories,  is  that  these  things  happen. 
To  those  who  say  that  cruelty  and  degradation 
are  not  fit  subjects  for  fiction,  I  say  that  all  twists 
and  phases  of  the  human  heart  are  fit  subjects  for 
fiction. 

"The  entertainment  of  hundreds  of  thousands 
with  'healthy'  literature  is  a  great  and  worthy 
office ;  but  the  author  can  only  give  out  what  is  in 
him.  If  I  write  of  wretched  and  strange  things,  it 
is  because  these  move  me  most.  Happiness  needs 
no  understanding;  but  these  darker  things — they 
are  kept  too  much  from  sensitive  eyes  and  polite 
ears;  and  so  are  too  harshly  judged  upon  the 
world's  report.  I  am  no  reformer;  I  have  never 
'studied'  people;  and  I  have  no  'purpose,'  unless 
it  be  illumination. 

"What  we  all  need  today  is  illumination;  for 
.only  through  full  knowledge  can  we  come  to  truth 
— and  understanding." 

•  • 

Burke's  new  book,  The  London  Spy,  is  described 
by  the  author  as  "a  book  of  town  travels."  Some 
of  the  subjects  are  London  street  characters,  cab 
shelters,  coffee  stalls  and  street  entertainers.  The 
range  is  very  wide,  for  there  is  a  chapter  called 
"In  the  Streets  of  Rich  Men,"  which  deals  with 
Pall  Mall  and  Piccadilly,  as  well  as  a  study  of 
a  waterside  colony,   including  the  results   of  a 

[189] 


WHEN  WINTER  COMES  TO  MAIN  STREET 

first  pipe  of  opilim  ("In  the  Streets  of  Cyprus"). 
Mr.  Burke  tells  a  good  deal  about  the  film  world 
of  Soho  and  is  able  to  give  an  intimate  sketch  of 
Chaplin.  Perhaps  the  most  charming  of  the  titles 
in  the  book  is  the  chapter  called  "In  the  Street  of 
Beautiful  Children."  This  is  a  study  of  a  street 
in  Stepney,  with  observations  on  orphanages  and 
reformatories  and  "their  oppressions  of  the  chil- 
dren of  the  poor." 

Thomas  Burke  was  born  in  London  and  seldom 
lives  away  from  it.  He  started  writing  when 
employed  in  a  mercantile  office,  and  sold  his  first 
story  when  sixteen.  He  sincerely  hopes  nobody 
will  ever  discover  and  reprint  that  story.  His 
early  struggles  have  been  recounted  in  his  Nights 
in  London.  He  married  Winifred  Wells,  a 
young  London  poet,  author  of  The  Three  Crowns. 
He  lives  at  Highgate,  on  the  Northern  Heights  of 
London.  He  hates  literary  society  and  social 
functions  generally.  His  chief  recreation  is  wan- 
dering about  London. 


Ill 

There  is  very  little  use  in  doing  a  book  about 
China  now-a-days  unless  you  can  do  an  unusual 
book  about  China;  and  that,  precisely,  is  what 
E.  G.  Kemp  has  done.  Chinese  Mettle  is  an  un- 
usual book,  even  to  the  shape  of  it  (it  is  nearly 
square  though  not  taller  than  the  ordinary  book). 
The  author  has  written  enough  books  on  China 

[190] 


PLACES  TO  GO 

to  cover  all  the  usual  ground  and,  as  Sao-Ke  Al- 
fred Sze  of  the  Chinese  Legation  at  Washington 
says  in  his  foreword,  Miss  Kemp  "has  wisely 
neglected  the  'show-window'  by  putting  seaports 
at  the  end.  By  acquainting  the  public  with  the 
wealth  and  beauty  of  the  interior,  she  reveals  to 
readers  the  vitality  and  potential  energy,  both 
natural  and  cultural,  of  a  great  nation."  Three 
provinces  are  particularly  described — Yiinnan, 
Kweichow,  Hunan — and  there  are  good  chapters 
on  the  new  Chinese  woman  and  the  youth  of 
China,  This  book  has,  in  addition  to  unusual  il- 
lustrations, what  every  good  book  of  its  sort 
should  have,  an  index. 

In  view  of  the  title  of  this  chapter  I  have  hesi- 
tated over  mentioning  here  Albert  C.  White's 
The  Irish  Free  State.  Whether  Ireland  now 
should  be  numbered  among  the  places  to  go  or  not 
is  possibly  a  matter  of  heredity  and  sympathies; 
but  at  any  rate,  Ireland  is  unquestionably  a  place 
to  read  about.  Shall  we  agree  that  the  Irish  Free 
State  is  one  of  the  best  places  in  the  world  to  go 
in  a  book?  Then  Mr.  White's  book  will  furnish 
up-to-the-minute  transportation  thither. 

The  book  is  written  throughout  from  the  stand- 
point of  a  vigorous  and  independent  mind.  It 
will  annoy  extreme  partisans  of  all  shades  of 
opinion,  and  will  provoke  much  discussion.  This 
is  especially  true  of  the  concluding  chapter,  in 
which  the  author  discusses  "Some  Factors  in  the 
Future."     The  value  of  the  book  is  enhanced  by 

[■91] 


WHEN  WINTER  COMES  TO  MAIN  STREET 

the  inclusion  of  the  essential  documents  of  the 
Home  Rule  struggle,  including  the  four  Home 
Rule  Bills  of  1886,  1893,  1914  and  1920,  and 
the  terms  of  the  Treaty  concluded  with  Sinn  Fein. 

Whether  Russia  is  a  place  to  go  is  another  of 
those  debatable  questions  and  I  feel  that  the  same 
conclusion  holds  good.  A  book  is  the  wisest  pass- 
port to  Russia  at  present.  Marooned  in  Moscow^ 
by  Marguerite  E.  Harrison,  is  not  a  new  book — 
in  the  sense  of  having  been  published  last  week. 
It  remains  about  the  best  single  book  published  on 
Russia  under  the  Soviet  government;  and  I  say 
this  with  the  full  recollection  that  H.  G.  Wells 
also  wrote  a  book  about  Soviet  Russia  after  a  visit 
of  fifteen  days.  Mrs.  Harrison  spent  eighteen 
months  and  was  part  of  the  time  in  prison.  She  is 
an  exceptionally  good  reporter  without  prejudices 
for  or  against  any  theory  of  government — with  an 
eye  only  for  the  facts  and  a  word  only  for  an 
observed  fact. 

It  is  good  news  that  The  Secret  of  the  Sahara: 
Kufara^  by  Rosita  Forbes,  is  to  be  published  in  a 
new  edition.  This  Englishwoman,  with  no  assist- 
ance but  that  of  native  guides,  penetrated  to 
Kufara,  which  lies  hidden  in  the  heart  of  the 
Libyan  desert,  a  section  of  the  Sahara.  This  is 
the  region  of  a  fanatical  sect  of  Mohammedans 
known  as  the  Senussi.  No  other  white  woman 
has  ever  been  known  to  enter  the  sacred  city  of 
Paj,  a  gloomy  citadel  hewn  out  of  rock  on  the 
edge  of  a  beautiful  valley.     The  Secret  of  the 

[192] 


PLACES  TO  GO 

Sahara  is  illustrated  with  pictures  taken  by  the 
author,  many  times  under  pain  of  death  if  she 
were  detected  using  a  camera. 


IV 

C.  E.  Andrews  is  a  college  professor  who  saw 
war  service  in  France  and  relief  administration 
work  in  the  Balkans,  His  gifts  as  a  delightful 
writer  will  be  apparent  now  that  his  book  of  trav- 
els, Old  Morocco  and  the  Forbidden  A  tlas^  is  out. 
This  book,  unlike  the  conventional  travel  book, 
has  the  qualities  of  a  good  story.  There  is  colour 
and  adventure.  There  are  humorous  episodes  and 
there  are  pictures  that  seem  to  be  mirrored  in  the 
clear  lake  of  a  lovely  prose.  The  journey  de- 
scribed is  through  a  region  of  Morocco  little 
traversed  by  white  men  and  over  paths  of  the  Atlas 
Mountains  frequented  chiefly  by  wild  tribes  and 
banditti. 

Of  all  places  to  go,  old  New  York  remains,  for 
many,  the  most  appealing.  Does  it  sound  queer 
to  recommend  for  those  readers  A  Century  of 
Banking  in  New  York:  1822— ig22,  by  Henry 
Wysham  Lanier?  Mr.  Lanier  is  a  son  of  Sidney 
Lanier,  the  poet,  and  those  who  believe  that  a 
chronicle  of  banking  must  necessarily  be  full  of 
dry  statistics  are  invited  to  read  the  opening  chap- 
ter of  this  book;  for  Mr.  Lanier  begins  his  tale 
with  the  yellow  fever  epidemic  of  1822,  when  all 
the  banks  of  New  York,  to  say  nothing  of  the 

E193] 


WHEN  WINTER  COMES  TO  MAIN  STREET 

thousands  of  people,  fled  "from  the  city  to  the 
country" — that  is,  from  lowermost  Broadway  to 
the  healthful  village  of  Greenwich.  This  quality 
of  human  rather  than  statistical  interest  is  para- 
mount throughout  the  book. 

I  go  back  almost  four  years  to  call  attention 
again  to  Frederic  A.  Fenger's  Alone  in  the  Carib- 
bean^ a  book  with  maps  and  illustrations  from 
unusual  photographs,  the  narrative  of  a  cruise  in 
a  sailing  canoe  among  the  Caribbean  Islands. 
...  It  is  just  a  good  book. 


Robin  'Hood's  Barn,  by  Margaret  Emerson 
Bailey,  should  be  classified,  I  suppose,  as  a  volume 
of  essays.  It  seems  to  me  admirably  suited  for 
this  chapter,  since  it  is  all  about  a  pleasant  house 
inhabited  by  pleasant  people — and  surely  that  is 
a  place  where  everyone  wants  to  go.  Margaret 
Emerson  Bailey  is  describing,  I  think,  an  actual 
house  and  actual  people;  not  so  much  their  lives 
as  what  they  make  out  of  life  in  the  collectivism 
that  family  life  enforces.  At  least,  I  seem  to  get 
from  her  book  a  unity  of  meaning,  the  lack  of 
which  in  our  lives,  as  we  live  them  daily,  makes 
for  helplessness  and  sometimes  for  despair. 

With  even  more  doubt  as  to  the  exact  "classifi- 
cation," I  proceed  to  speak  here  and  now  of  L.  P. 
Jacks's  book,  The  Legends  of  S?nokeover.  Mr. 
Jacks  is  well  known  as  the  editor  of  the  Hibbert 

[194] 


PLACES  TO  GO 

Journal  and  a  writer  of  distinction  upon  philo- 
sophical subjects.  I  should  say  his  specialty  is  an 
ability  to  relate  philosophical  abstractions  to  prac- 
tical, everyday  existence.  Those  familiar  with 
his  essays  in  the  Atlantic  Monthly  will  know  what 
I  mean.  And  is  the  Smokeover  of  his  new  book, 
then,  a  place  to  go?  It  is,  if  you  wish  to  see  our 
modern  age  and  industrial  civilisation  expressed 
in  such  terms — almost  in  the  terms  of  fiction — 
as  make  its  appraisal  relatively  easy. 

I  suppose  this  book  might  make  Mr.  Jacks  mem- 
orable as  a  satirist.  It  brings  philosophy  down 
frorpi  the  air,  like  a  peaceful  thunderbolt,  to  shat- 
'^ter  the  vain  illusions  we  entertain  of  our  material 
success  and  our  civilised  strides  forward.  The 
fact  that  when  you  have  begun  to  read  the  book 
you  ma)^  experience  some  difficulty  in  knowing 
how  to  take  it  is  in  the  book's  favour.  And  why 
should  you  complain  so  long  as  from  the  outset 
you  are  continuously  entertained  and  amused? 
You  can  scarcely  complain  .  .  .  even  though  at 
the  end,  you  find  you  have  been  instructed.  In  a 
world  thickly  spotted  with  Smokeovers,  Mr. 
Jacks's  book  is  a  book  worth  having,  worth  read- 
ing, worth  reading  again. 


[195] 


Chapter  XIII 
ALIAS  RICHARD  DEHAN 


AT  that,  I  think  I  am  wrong.  I  think  the  title 
of  this  chapter  ought  to  be  "Alias  Clotilde 
Graves." 

The  problems  of  literary  personality  are 
strange.  Some  time  after  the  Boer  War  a  woman 
who  had  been  in  newspaper  work  in  London  and 
who  had  even,  at  one  time,  been  on  the  stage  under 
the  necessity  of  earning  her  living,  wrote  a  novel. 
The  novel  happened  to  be  an  intensive  study  of 
the  Boer  War,  made  possible  by  the  fact  that  the 
writer  was  the  daughter  of  a  soldier  and  had  spent 
her  early  years  in  barracks.  England  at  that  time 
was  interested  by  the  subject  of  this  novel.  It 
sold  largely  and  its  author  was  established  by  the 
book. 

She  was  forty-six  years  old  in  the  year  when  the 
book  was  published.  But  this  was  not  the  striking 
thing.  William  De  Morgan  produced  the  first  of 
his  impressive  novels  at  a  much  more  advanced 
age.  The  significant  thing  was  that  in  publishing 
her  novel,  The  Dop  Doctor  (American  title:  One 

[196] 


ALIAS  RICHARD  DEHAN 

Braver  Thing),  Clotilde  Graves  chose  the  pen 
name  of  Richard  Dehan,  although  she  was  already 
known  as  a  writer  (chiefly  for  the  theatre)  under 
her  own  name. 

I  do  not  know  that  Miss  Graves  has  ever  said 
anything  publicly  about  her  motive  in  electing  the 
name  of  Richard  Dehan.  But  I  feel  that  what- 
ever the  cause  the  result  was  the  distinct  emerg- 
ence of  a  totally  different  personality.  There  is 
no  final  disassociation  between  Clotilde  Graves 
and  Richard  Dehan.  Richard  Dehan,  novelist, 
steadily  employs  the  material  furnished  in  valu- 
able abundance  by  Clotilde  Graves's  life.  At  the 
same  time  the  personality  of  Richard  Dehan  is  so 
unusual,  so  gifted,  so  lavish  in  its  invention  and 
so  much  at  home  in  surprising  backgrounds,  that 
something  approaching  a  psychic  explanation  of 
authorship  seems  called  for.  I 

ii 

Clotilde  Inez  Mary  Graves  was  born  at  Bar- 
racks, Butte vant,  County  Cork,  Ireland,  on  June 
3,  1864,  third  daughter  of  the  late  Major  W.  H. 
Graves  of  the  Eighteenth  Royal  Irish  Regiment 
and  Antoinette,  daughter  of  Captain  George  An- 
thony Deane  of  Harwich.  Thus,  the  English 
Who's  Who. 

"She  numbers  among  her  ancestors  admirals 
and  deans,"  said  The  Bookman  in  1912. 

As  the  same  magazine  at  about  the  same  time 
spoke  of  her  as  descended  from  Charles  IL's  naval 

[197] 


WHEN  WINTER  COMES  TO  MAIN  STREET 

architect.  Admiral  Sir  Anthony  Deane,  one  won- 
ders if  Sir  Anthony  were  not  the  sum  of  the  ad- 
mirals and  the  total  of  the  deans.  But  no;  at 
any  rate  in  so  far  as  the  admirals  are  concerned, 
for  Miss  Graves  is  also  said  to  be  distantly  re- 
lated to  Admiral  Nelson. 

I  will  give  you  what  The  Bookman  said  in  the 
"Chronicle  and  Comment"  columns  of  its  number 
for  February,  1913: 

"Richard  Dehan  was  nine  years  old  when  her 
family  emigrated  to  England  from  their  Irish 
home.  She  had  seen  a  good  deal  of  barrack  life, 
and  at  Southsea,  where  they  went  to  live,  she 
acquired  a  large  knowledge  of  both  services  in  the 
circle  of  naval  and  military  friends  they  made 
there,  and  this  knowledge  years  afterward  she 
turned  to  account  in  Between  Tzvo  Thieves.  In 
1884,  Miss  Graves  became  an  art  student  and 
worked  at  the  British  Museum  galleries  and  the 
Royal  Female  School  of  Art,  helping  to  support 
herself  by  journalism  of  a  lesser  kind,  among 
other  things  drawing  little  pen-and-ink  grotesques 
for  the  comic  papers.  By  and  by  she  resolved  to 
take  to  dramatic  writing  and  being  too  poor,  she 
says,  to  manage  in  any  other  way,  she  abandoned 
art  and  took  an  engagement  in  a  travelling  theatri- 
cal company.  In  1888  her  first  chance  as  a 
dramatist  came.  She  was  again  in  London,  work- 
ing vigorously  at  journalism,  when  some  one  was 
needed  to  write  extra  lyrics  for  a  pantomime  then 
in  preparation.    A  letter  of  recommendation  from 

[198] 


ALIAS  RICHARD  DEHAN 

an  editor  to  the  manager  ended  in  Miss  Clo  Graves 
writing  the  pantomime  of  Puss  in  Boots.  Later  a 
tragedy  by  her,  Nitocris^  was  produced  for  an 
afternoon  at  Drury  Lane,  and  another  of  her 
plays.  The  Mother  of  Three^  proved  not  only  a 
literary,  but  also  a  material,  success." 

Her  first  novel  to  be  signed  Richard  Dehan 
being  so  successful,  an  English  publisher  planned 
to  bring  out  an  earlier,  minor  work,  already  pub- 
lished as  by  Clotilde  Graves,  with  "Richard 
Dehan"  on  the  title-page.  The  author  was  stirred 
to  a  vigorous  and  public  protest.  In  the  ensuing 
controversy  someone  made  the  point  that  the  pro- 
posed reissue  would  not  be  more  indefensible  than 
the  act  of  a  publishing  house  in  bringing  out 
posthumous  "books"  by  O.  Henry  and  dragging 
from  its  deserved  oblivion  Rudyard  Kipling's 
Abaft  the  Funnel.] 

I  do  not  know  whether  the  publishing  of  books 
is  a  business  or  a  profession.  I  should  say  that 
it  has,  at  one  time  or  another  and  by  one  or  an- 
other individual  or  concern,  been  pursued  as 
either  or  both. 

There  have  certainly  been,  and  probably  are, 
book  publishers  who  not  only  conduct  their 
business  as  a  business  but  as  a  business  of  a  low 
order.  There  have  been  and  are  book  publishers 
who,  though  quite  necessarily  business  men,  ob- 
serve an  ethical  code  as  nice  as  that  of  any  of  the 
recognised  professions.  Perhaps  publishing  books 
should  qualify  as  an  art,  since  it  has  the  character- 

[199] 


WHEN  WINTER  COMES  TO  MAIN  STREET 

4stics  of  bringing  out  what  is  best  or  worst  in  a 
publisher;  and,  indeed,  if  we  are  to  hold  that  any- 
successful  means  of  self-expression  is  art,  then 
publishing  books  has  been  an  art  more  than  once ; 
for  unquestionably  there  are  publishers  who  find 
self-expression  in  their  work. 

"^  This  is  an  interesting  subject,  but  I  must  not 
pursue  it  in  this  place.  Certainly  Miss  Graves 
was  justified  in  objecting  to  the  use  of  her  new 
pen  name  on  work  already  published  under  her 
own  name.  In  her  case,  as  I  think,  the  objection 
was  peculiarly  well-founded,  because  it  seems  to 
me  that  Richard  Dehan  was  a  new  person.  Since 
Richard  Dehan  appeared  on  the  title-page  of  The 
Dop  Doctor^  there  has  never  been  a  Clotilde 
Graves  in  books.  You  have  only  to  study  the 
books.  The  Dop  Doctor  was  followed,  two  years 
later,  by  Between  Two  Thieves.  This  novel  has 
as  a  leading  character  Florence  Nightingale  under 
the  name  of  Ada  Merling.  The  story  was  at 
first  to  have  been  called  "The  Lady  With  The 
Lamp" ;  but  the  author  delayed  it  for  a  year  and 
subjected  it  to  a  complete  rewriting,  the  result 
of  a  new  and  enlarged  conception  of  the  story. 
Then  came  a  steady  succession  of  novels  by 

'  Richard  Dehan.  I  remember  with  what  surprise 
I  read,  in  1918,  That  Which  Hath  Wings,  a  war 
story  of  large  dimensions  and  an  incredible 
amount  of  exact  and  easy  detail.  I  remember, 
too,  noting  that  there  was  embedded  in  it  a  mar- 
vellous story  for  children — an  airplane  flight  in 

[200] 


ALIAS  RICHARD  DEHAN 

which  a  youngster  figured — if  the  publisher  chose, 
with  the  author's  consent,  to  lift  this  out  of  its 
larger,  adult  setting.  I  remember  very  vividly 
reading  in  1920  a  collection  of  short  stories  by 
Richard  Dehan,  published  under  the  title  The 
Eve  of  Fascua.  Pascua  is  the  Spanish  word  for 
Easter,  I  wondered  where  on  earth,  unless  in 
Spain  itself,  the  author  got  the  bright  colouring 
for  his  story. 

What  I  did  not  realise  at  the  time  was  that 
Richard  Dehan  is  like  that.  Now,  smitten  to 
earth  by  the  500-page  novel  which  he  has  just 
completed,  I  think  I  understand  better.  The 
Just  Steward^  from  one  standpoint,  makes  the 
labours  of  Gustave  Flaubert  in  Salaambo  seem 
trivial.  It  is  known  with  what  passionate  tenac- 
ity and  surprising  ardour  the  French  master 
studied  the  subject  of  ancient  Carthage,  grubbing 
like  the  lowliest  archaeologist  to  get  at  his  finger- 
tips all  those  recondite  allusions  so  necessary  if  he 
were  to  move  with  lightness,  assurance  and  con- 
summate art  through  the  scenes  of  his  novel.  But, 
frankly,  one  does  not  expect  this  of  the  third 
daughter  of  an  Irish  soldier,  an  ex-journalist  and 
the  author  of  a  Drury  Lane  pantomime.  Never- 
theless the  erudition  is  all  here.  From  this  stand- 
point. The  Just  Steward  is  truly  monumental.  I 
will  show  you  a  sample  or  two : 

"Beautiful,  even  with  the  trench  and  wall  of 
Diocletian's  comparatively  recent  siege  scarring 
the   orchards  and  vineyards  of  Lake  Mareotis, 

[201] 


WHEN  WINTER  COMES  TO  MAIN  STREET 

splendid  even  though  her  broken  canals  Tind  aque- 
ducts had  never  been  repaired,  and  part  of  her 
western  quarter  still  displayed  heaps  of  calcined 
ruins  where  had  been  temples,  palaces  and  acad- 
emies, Alexandria  lay  shimmering  under  the 
African  sun.  .  .  . 

"The  vintage  of  Egypt  was  in  full  swing,  the 
figs  and  dates  were  being  harvested.  Swarms  of 
wasps  and  hornets,  armed  with  formidable  stings, 
yellow-striped  like  the  dreaded  nomads  of  the 
south  and  eastern  frontiers,  greedily  sucked  the 
sugary  juices  of  the  ripe  fruit.  Flocks  of  hg- 
birds  twittered  amongst  the  branches,  being  like 
the  date-pigeons,  almost  too  gorged  to  fly.  Half 
naked,  dark  or  tawny  skinned,  tattooed  native 
labourers,  hybrids  of  mingled  races,  with  heads 
close-shaven  save  for  a  topknot,  dwellers  in  mud- 
hovels,  drudges  of  the  water-wheel,  cut  down  the 
heavy  grape-clusters  with  sickle-shaped  cooper 
knives. 

"Ebony,  woolly-haired  negroes  in  clean  white 
breech-cloths,  piled  up  the  gathered  fruit  in  tall 
baskets  woven  of  reeds  and  lined  with  leaves. 
Copts  with  the  rich  reddish  skins,  the  long  eyes 
and  boldly  curving  profiles  of  Egyptian  warriors 
and  monarchs  as  presented  on  the  walls  of  ancient 
temples  of  Libya  and  the  Thebaid,  moved  about 
in  leather-girdled  blue  linen  tunics  and  hide  san- 
dals, keeping  account  of  the  laden  panniers,  roped 
upon  the  backs  of  diminutive  asses  and  carried 
to  the  winepresses  as  fast  as  they  were  filled. 
[202] 


ALIAS  RICHARD  DEHAN 

"The  negroes  sang  as  they  set  snares  for  fig- 
birds,  and  stuffed  themselves  to  the  throat  with 
grapes  and  custard-apples.  The  fat  beccaficoes 
beloved  of  the  epicurean  fell  by  hundreds  into  the 
limed  horsehair  traps.  Greek,  Egyptian  and  ne- 
gro girls,  laughing  under  garlands  of  hibiscus, 
periwinkle  and  tuberoses,  coaxed  the  fat  morsels 
out  of  the  black  men  to  carry  home  for  a  supper 
treat,  while  acrobats,  comic  singers,  sellers  of 
cakes,  drinks  and  sweetmeats,  with  strolling  jug- 
glers and  jesters  and  Jewish  fortune-tellers  of 
both  sexes,  assailed  the  workers  and  the  merry- 
makers with  importunities  and  made  harvest  in 
their  own  way." 

The  story  is  extraordinary.  Opening  in  the 
Alexandria  of  the  fourth  century,  it  pictures  two 
men,  a  Roman  official  and  a  Jewish  steward,  who 
are  friends  unto  death.  The  second  of  the  four 
parts  or  books  into  which  the  novel  is  divided 
opens  in  England  in  1914.  We  have  to  do  with 
John  Hazel,  the  descendant  of  Hazael  Aben 
Hazael,  and  with  the  lovely  Katharine  Forbis, 
whose  ancestor  was  a  Roman,  Hazael  Aben 
Hazael's  sworn  friend. 

A  story  of  exciting  action  certainly;  it  has  ele- 
ments that  would  ordinarily  be  called  melodra- 
matic— events  which  are  focussed  down  into  real- 
ities against  the  tremendous  background  of  an 
incredible  war.  The  exotic  settings  are  Egypt 
and  Palestine.  It  must  not  be  thought  that  the 
story  is  bizarre;  the  scenes  in  England,  the  Eng- 

[203] 


WHEN  WINTER  COMES  TO  MAIN  STREET 

lish  slang  of  John  Hazel,  as  well  as  the  typical 
figure  of  Trixie,  Lady  Wastwood,  are  utterly 
modern.  I  do  not  find  anything  to  explain  how 
Miss  Graves  could  write  such  a  book;  the  answer 
is  that  Richard  Dehan  wrote  it. 


Ill 

Miss  Graves,  of  whose  antecedents  and  educa- 
tion we  already  know  something,  is  a  Roman 
Catholic  in  faith  and  a  Liberal  Unionist  in  poli- 
tics. She  lives  at  The  Towers,  Deeding,  near 
Bramber,  Sussex.  Her  recreations  are  gardening 
and  driving. 

But  Richard  Dehan  knows  the  early  history  of 
the  Christian  Church;  he  knows  military  life, 
strategy,  tactics,  types;  he  knows  in  a  most  ex- 
traordinary way  the  details  of  Jewish  history  and 
religious  observances;  he  knows  perfectly  and  as 
a  matter  of  course  all  about  English  middle  class 
life;  he  knows  all  sorts  of  things  about  the  East — 
Turkey  and  Arabia  and  those  countries. 

This  is  a  discrepancy  which  will  bear  a  good 
deal  of  accounting  for. 

Before  I  try  to  account  for  it  I  will  give  you  a 
long  passage  from  The  Just  Steward,  describing 
the  visit  of  Katharine  Forbis  and  her  friend  to  the 
house  of  John  Hazel,  lately  of  London  and  now 
of  Alexandria: 

"The  negro  porter  who  had  opened  the  door,  a 
[204] 


ALIAS  RICHARD  DEHAN 

huge  Ethiopian  of  ebony  blackriess,  dressed  and 
turbaned  in  snow-white  linen,  salaamed  deeply  to 
the  ladies,  displaying  as  he  did  so  a  mouthful  of 
teeth  as  dazzling  in  whiteness  and  sharply- 
pointed  as  those  of  the  mosaic  dog. 

'Then  the  negro  shut  the  heavy  door  and 
locked  and  bolted  it.  They  heard  the  car  snort 
and  move  away  as  the  heavy  bolts  scrooped  in 
their  ancient  grooves  of  stone.  But,  as  they 
glanced  back,  towards  the  entrance,  the  imper- 
turbable attendant  in  the  black  kaftan  waved 
them  forward  to  where  another  man,  exactly  like 
himself  in  feature,  colouring  and  costume,  waited 
as  imperturbably  on  the  threshold  of  a  larger  hall 
beyond.  On  its  right-hand  doorpost  was  affixed 
a  cylinder  of  metal  repoussee  with  an  oval  piece 
of  glass  on  that  something  like  a  human  eye.  And 
the  big  invisible  bees  went  on  humming  as  indus- 
triously and  as  sleepily  as  ever : 

" 'Bz'zz'z!.  .  .Bzz'zl.  .  .Bzz  m'm'ml  .  .  / 
"Perhaps  it  was  the  bees'  thick,  sleepy  droning 
that  made  Miss  Forbis  feel  as  though  she  had 
previously  visited  this  house  in  a  dream,  in  which, 
though  the  mosaic  dog  had  certainly  figured,  to- 
gether with  a  negro  who  had  opened  doors,  the 
rows  of  shoes  along  the  wall,  the  little  creature 
tripping  at  her  side,  the  two  dark,  ultra-respect- 
able men  in  black  tarbushes  and  kaftans  had  had 
no  place  or  part.  Only  John  Hazel  had  bulked 
big.  He  was  there,  beyond  the  grave  Semitic  face 
of  the  second  Jewish  secretary,  on  the  farther  side 

[205] 


WHEN  WINTER  COMES  TO  MAIN  STREET 

of  the  torrent  of  boiling  amber  sunshine  pouring 
through  a  central  opening  in  the  roof  of  the  inner 
hall  that  succeeded  the  vestibule  of  the  mosaic 
Cerberus.  An  atrium  some  forty  feet  in  length, 
paved  with  squares  of  black  and  yellow  marble 
with  an  oblong  pool  in  the  midst  of  it,  upon  whose 
still  crystal  surface  pink  and  crimson  petals  of 
roses  had  been  strewn  in  patterns,  and  in  the 
centre  of  which  a  triple-jetted  fountain  played. 

"The  humming  of  the  unseen  bees  came  louder 
than  ever,  from  a  doorway  in  the  wall  upon 
Katharine's  right  hand,  a  wall  of  black  polished 
marble,  decorated  with  an  inlaid  ornament  in  por- 
phyry of  yellow  and  red  and  pale  green.  The 
curtain  of  dyed  and  threaded  reeds  did  not  hide 
what  lay  beyond  the  doorway.  You  saw  a  long, 
high-pitched  whitewashed  room,  cooled  by  big 
wooden  electric  fans  working  under  the  ceiling, 
and  traversed  by  avenues  of  creamy-white  Chi- 
nese matting,  running  between  rows  of  low  native 
desks,  before  each  of  which  squatted,  on  naked 
or  cotton-sock-covered  heels,  or  sat  cross-legged 
upon  a  square  native  chintz  cushion,  a  coifee- 
coloured,  almond-eyed  young  Copt,  in  a  black 
or  blue  cotton  nightgown,  topped  with  the  tar- 
bush  of  black  felt  or  a  dingy-white  or  olive-brown 
muslin  turban,  murmuring  softly  to  himself  as  he 
made  entries,  from  right  to  left,  in  a  huge  limp- 
covered  ledger,  or  deftly  fingered  the  balls  of 
coloured  clay  strung  on  the  wires  of  the  abacus 
at  his  side. 
[206] 


ALIAS  RICHARD  DEHAN 

"'Oh!  .  .  .  Wonderful!  I'm  so  Glad  you 
Brought  me !' 

"Lady  Wastwood's  emphatic  exclamation  of 
pleasure  in  her  surroundings  brought  cessation  in 
the  humming — caused  a  swivelling  of  capped  or 
turbanned  heads  all  down  the  length  of  three 
avenues — evoked  a  simultaneous  flash  of  black 
Oriental  eyes,  and  white  teeth  in  dusky  faces 
lifted  or  turned.  Then  at  the  upper  end  of  the 
long  counting-house,  where  three  wide  glassless 
windows  looked  on  a  sanded  palm-garden,  and 
the  leather-topped  knee-hole  tables,  roll-top  desks, 
copying  ink  presses,  mahogany  revolving-chairs, 
telephone  installations,  willow-paper  baskets, 
pewter  inkstands  and  Post  Office  Directories  sug- 
gested Cornhill  and  Cheapside  rather  than  the 
Orient — one  of  the  olive-faced  Jewish  head-clerks 
in  kaftans  and  side-curls  coughed — and  as  though 
he  had  pulled  a  string  controlling  all  the  observ- 
ant faces,  every  tooth  was  hidden  and  every  eye 
discreetly  bent  on  the  big  limp  ledgers  again. 

"All  the  Coptic  bees  were  humming  sonorously 
in  unison  as  Katharine  went  forward  to  a  lofty 
doorway,  framing  brightness,  where  waited  to  re- 
ceive her  the  master  of  the  hive.  .  .  . 

"The  light  beings  behind  him  may  have  exag- 
gerated his  proportions,  but  he  seemed  to  Trixie 
the  biggest  man  she  had  ever  seen,  and  nearly  the 
ugliest.  Close-curling  coarse  black  hair  capped 
his  high-domed  skull,  and  his  stern,  powerful, 
swarthy  face,  big-nosed  and  long-chinned,  with  a 

[207] 


WHEN  WINTER  COMES  TO  MAIN  STREET 

humorous  quirk  at  the  corners  of  the  heavy-lipped 
mouth,  that  redeemed  its  sensuousness,  was 
lighted  by  eyes  of  the  intensest  black,  burning 
under  heavy  beetle-brows.  His  khaki  uniform, 
though  of  fine  material  and  admirable  cut,  was 
that  of  a  common  ranker,  and  a  narrow  strip  of 
colours  over  the  heart,  and  the  fact  of  his  left 
arm  being  bandaged  and  slung,  intimated  to  Lady 
Wastwood  that  Katharine's  Jewish  friend  had 
already  served  with  some  degree  of  distinction, 
and  had  been  wounded  in  the  War.  And  drawing 
back  with  her  characteristic  inconquerable  shy- 
ness, as  he  advanced  to  Miss  Forbis,  plainly  un- 
conscious of  any  presence  save  hers,  Trixie's  ob- 
servant green  eyes  saw  him  bend  his  towering 
head,  and  sweep  his  right  arm  out  and  down  with 
slow  Oriental  stateliness,  bringing  back  the  sup- 
ple hand  to  touch  breast,  lips  and  brow.  Whether 
or  not  he  had  raised  the  hem  of  Katharine's  skirt 
to  his  lips  and  kissed  it.  Lady  Wastwood  could 
not  definitely  determine.  She  was  left  with  the 
impression  that  he  had  done  this  thing." 

iv 

I  should  have  liked  to  have  given,  rather  than 
purely  descriptive  passages,  a  slice  of  the  com- 
plicated and  tense  action  with  which  the  story 
brims  over,  but  there  is  the  difficulty  that  such  a 
scene  might  not  be  intelligible  to  one  not  having 
read  the  story  from  the  beginning.     I  must  resist 

[208] 


ALIAS  RICHARD  DEHAN 

the  tendency  to  quote  any  more,  having  indulged 
it  already  to  excess,  and  I  am  ready  to  propound 
my  theory  of  the  existence  of  Richard  Dehan. 

If  you  receive  a  letter  from  The  Towers,  Beed- 
ing,  it  will  bear  a  double  signature,  like  this : 

RICHARD     DEHAN 
CLOTILDE  GRAVES 

Clotilde  Graves  has  become  a  secondary  per- 
sonality. 

There  was  once  a  time  when  there  was  no 
Richard  Dehan.  There  now  are  times  when  there 
is  no  Clotilde  Graves. 

To  a  woman  in  middle  age  an  opportunity  pre- 
sented itself.  It  was  the  chance  to  write  a  novel 
around  the  subject  which,  as  a  girl,  she  had  come 
to  know  a  great  deal  about — the  subject  of  war. 
To  write  about  it  and  gain  attention,  the  novel 
required  a  man's  signature. 

Then  there  was  born  in  the  mind  of  the  woman 
who  purposed  to  write  the  novel  the  idea  of  a 
man — of  the  man — who  should  be  the  novelist 
she  wanted  to  be.  He  should  use  as  by  right  and 
from  instinct  the  material  which  lay  inutile  at  her 
woman's  disposal. 

She  created  Richard  Dehan.  Perhaps,  in  so 
doing,  she  created  another  monster  like  Franken- 
stein's.   I  do  not  know. 

Born  of  necessity  and  opportunity  and  a 
woman's  inventiveness,  Richard  Dehan  took  over 
whatever  of  Clotilde  Graves's  he  could  use.     He 

[209] 


WHEN  WINTER  COMES  TO  MAIN  STREET 

is  now  the  master.  It  is,  intellectually  and  spiritu- 
ally, as  if  he  were  the  full-grown  son  of  Clotilda 
Graves.  It  is  a  partnership  not  less  intimate  than 
that. 

Clotilde  Graves — but  she  does  not  matter.  I 
think  she  existed  to  bring  Richard  Dehan  into 
the  world. 

Books 
by  Richard  Dehan 

Novels: 

THE  lover's  battle 

THE  DOP  DOCTOR 

BETWEEN    TWO  THIEVES 

THE  HEADQUARTER  RECRUIT 

THE  COST  OF  WINGS 

THE  MAN  OF  IRON 

OFF  SANDY   HOOK 

EARTH  TO  EARTH 

UNDER  THE  HERMES 

THAT  WHICH   HATH   WINGS 

A  sailor's    HOME 

THE  EVE  OF  PASCUA 

THE  VILLA  OF  THE   PEACOCK 

THE  JUST   STEWARD 

Plays: 

NITOCRIS 

DRURY    LANE    PANTOMIME,    PUSS    IN    BOOTS 

DR.  AND  MRS.   NEILL 

A  MOTHER  OF  THREE 

[210] 


ALIAS  RICHARD  DEHAN 

A  MATCHMAKER 
THE  bishop's  eye 
THE   FOREST   LOVERS 
A  MAKER  OF  COMEDIES 
THE  BOND  OF  NINON 
A  TENEMENT  TRAGEDY 

Sources 
on  Richard  Dehan 

Who's  Who  [in  England]. 

THE  BOOKMAN  foF  February,  1913  (Volume 
XXXVI,  pp.  595-6),  also  brief  mention  in 
THE  BOOKMAN  for  September  and  October, 
1912. 

Private  Information. 


[211] 


Chapter  XIV 
WITH  FULL  DIRECTIONS 


I  HAVE  read  the  book  called  Civilization  in 
the  United  States^  a  collection  of  essays  by 
various  Americans,  and  count  the  time  well  spent 
chiefly  because,  at  the  end  of  the  chapter  on 
"Sport,"  I  came  upon  these  words  by  Ring  W. 
Lardner : 

"The  best  sporting  fiction  we  know  of,  prac- 
tically the  only  sporting  fiction  an  adult  may  read 
without  fear  of  stomach  trouble,  is  contained  in 
the  collected  works  of  the  late  Charles  E.  Van 
Loan." 

This  is  expert  testimony,  if  there  is  such  a 
thing.  The  books  Mr.  Lardner  referred  to  are 
published  in  a  five-volume  memorial  edition  con- 
sisting of: 

fore!  golf  stories 

SCORE  BY  innings:  baseball  stories 

OLD    MAN    curry:    RACETRACK    STORIES 
TAKING    THE    COUNT:    PRIZE    RING    STORIES 
BUCK    PARVIN  :    STORIES    OF    THE    MOTION    PIC- 
TURE   GAME 
[212] 


WITH  FULL  DIRECTIONS 

This  collected  edition  was  published  by  George 
H.  Doran  Company  with  the  arrangement  that 
every  cent  above  actual  cost  should  go  to  Mrs. 
Van  Loan  and  her  children. 

William  T.  Tilden,  2nd,  was  winner  of  the 
world's  tennis  championship  in  1920  and  1921. 
With  W.  M.  Johnston  he  was  winner  of  the  Davis 
cup  in  the  same  years.  He  also  won  the  United 
States  championship  in  those  years.  His  book, 
The  Art  of  Lawn  Tennis,  published  in  1921,  was 
republished  in  1922.  The  revised  edition  includ- 
ed chapters  on  the  winning  of  the  Davis  cup  and 
on  the  world's  and  the  United  States  champion- 
ships, on  Mrs.  Mallory's  play  in  the  women's 
world  championship  games  in  France  and  Eng- 
land, and  on  Mile.  Lenglen's  play  in  America. 
Mr.  Tilden  also  added  an  estimate  of  the  prom- 
ising youngsters  playing  tennis  and  indulged  in 
one  or  two  surprising  and  radical  prophecies. 

Twenty  Years  of  Lawn  Tennis,  by  A.  Wallis 
Myers,  an  English  player  of  distinction,  has  inter- 
esting chapters  on  play  in  other  countries  than 
America,  England  and  France.  An  anecdotal 
volume  this,  with  moments  on  the  Riviera  and 
matches  played  in  South  Africa. 

After  unpreventable  delays  we  have,  at  last, 
The  Gist  of  Golf  by  Harry  Vardon.  Using  re- 
markable photographs,  Vardon  devotes  a  chapter 
to  each  club  and  chapters  to  stance,  grip,  and 
swing.  Although  the  chief  value  of  the  book  is 
to  the  player  who  wants  to  improve  his  game, 

[213] 


WHEN  WINTER  COMES  TO  MAIN  STREET 

there  is  text  interesting  to  everyone  familiar 
with  golf;  for  Vardon  gives  personal  reminis- 
cences covering  years  of  play  and  illustrative  of 
his  instructions. 


11 

I  suppose  the  fifty-three  photographs,  mostly 
full  page  ones,  are  the  outstanding  feature  of 
W2ld  Life  in  the  Tree  Tops,  by  Captain  C.  W.  R. 
Knight.  This  English  book,  large  and  flat,  shows 
with  the  aid  of  the  camera,  the  merlin  pursuing 
her  quarry,  young  tawny  owls  in  a  disused  mag- 
pie's nest,  female  noctules  and  their  young,  the 
male  kestrel  brooding,  and  a  male  buzzard  that 
has  just  brought  a  rabbit  to  the  younglings  in  the 
nest.  Plenty  of  other  pictures  like  these!  The 
chapters  deal  with  the  buzzards  of  the  Doone 
country,  the  lady's  hawk,  woodpeckers,  brown 
owls,  sparrow-hawks,  herons  and  various  other 
feathered  people. 

Did  you  ever  read  Lad:  A  Dog?  Well,  any- 
way, there  is  a  man  named  Albert  Payson  Terhune 
and  he  and  his  wife  live  at  a  place  called  "Sunny- 
bank,"  at  Pompton  Lakes,  New  Jersey,  where 
they  raise  prize  winning  collie  dogs.  Photographs 
come  from  New  Jersey  showing  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Terhune  taking  afternoon  tea,  entirely  sur- 
rounded by  magnificently  coated  collies.  You 
will  also  find,  if  you  stray  into  a  bookstore  this 
autumn,  a  book  with  a  jacket  drawn  by  Charles 

[214] 


WITH  FULL  DIRECTIONS 

Livingston  Bull — a  jacket  from  which  looms  a 
colossal  collie.  He  carries  in  a  firmly  knotted 
shawl  or  blanket  or  sheet  or  something  (the  knot 
clenched  between  his  teeth)  a  new-born  babe. 
New-born  or  approximately  so.  The  title  of  this 
book  is  Further  Adventures  of  Lad. 

Mr.  Terhune  writes  the  best  dog  stories.  Read 
a  little  bit  from  the  first  chapter  of  Further 
Adventures  of  Lad: 

"Even  the  crate  which  brought  the  new  dog  to 
the  Place  failed  somehow  to  destroy  the  illusion 
of  size  and  fierceness.  But  the  moment  the  crate 
door  was  opened  the  delusion  was  wrecked  by  Lad 
himself. 

"Out  on  to  the  porch  he  walked.  The  ram- 
shackle crate  behind  him  had  a  ridiculous  air  of 
chrysalis  from  which  some  bright  thing  had  de- 
parted. For  a  shaft  of  sunlight  was  shimmering 
athwart  the  veranda  floor.  And  into  the  middle 
of  the  warm  bar  of  radiance  Laddie  stepped — 
and  stood. 

"His  fluffy  puppy-coat  of  wavy  mahogany-and- 
white  caught  a  million  sunbeams,  reflecting  them 
back  in  tawny-orange  glints  and  in  a  dazzle  as  of 
snow.  His  forepaws  were  absurdly  small  even 
for  a  puppy's.  Above  them  the  ridging  of  the 
stocky  leg  bones  gave  as  clear  promise  of  mighty 
size  and  strength  as  did  the  amazingly  deep  little 
chest  and  square  shoulders. 

"Here  one  day  would  stand  a  giant  among 
dogs,  powerful  as  a  timber-wolf,  lithe  as  a  cat,  as 

[215] 


WHEN  WINTER  COMES  TO  MAIN  STREET 

dangerous  to  foes  as  an  angry  tiger;  a  dog  without 
fear  or  treachery;  a  dog  of  uncanny  brain  and 
great  lovingly  loyal  heart  and,  withal,  a  dancing 
sense  of  fun.    A  dog  with  a  soul. 

"All  this,  any  canine  physiologist  might  have 
read  from  the  compact  frame,  the  proud  head  car- 
riage, the  smoulder  in  the  deep-set  sorrowful  dark 
eyes.  To  the  casual  observer,  he  was  but  a  beau- 
tiful and  appealing  and  wonderfully  cuddleable 
bunch  of  puppyhood. 

"Lad's  dark  eyes  swept  the  porch,  the  soft 
swelling  green  of  the  lawn.  The  flash  of  fire-blue 
lake  among  the  trees  below.  Then  he  deigned  to 
look  at  the  group  of  humans  at  one  side  of  him. 
Gravely,  impersonally,  he  surveyed  them;  not  at 
all  cowed  or  strange  in  his  new  surroundings; 
courteously  inquisitive  as  to  the  twist  of  luck  that 
had  set  him  down  here  and  as  to  the  people  who, 
presumably,  were  to  be  his  future  companions. 

"Perhaps  the  stout  little  heart  quivered  just  a 
bit,  if  memory  went  back  to  his  home  kennel  and 
to  the  rowdy  throng  of  brothers  and  sisters  and, 
most  of  all,  to  the  soft  furry  mother  against 
whose  side  he  had  nestled  every  night  since  he 
was  born.  But  if  so.  Lad  was  too  valiant  to  show 
homesickness  by  so  much  as  a  whimper.  And, 
assuredly,  this  House  of  Peace  was  infinitely  bet- 
ter than  the  miserable  crate  wherein  he  had  spent 
twenty  horrible  and  jouncing  and  smelly  and 
noisy  hours. 

"From  one  to  another  of  the  group  strayed  the 

[216] 


WITH  FULL  DIRECTIONS 

level  sorrowful  gaze.  After  the  swift  inspection 
Laddie's  eyes  rest  again  on  the  Mistress.  For 
an  instant,  he  stood,  looking  at  her,  in  that  mildly- 
polite  curiosity  which  held  no  hint  of  personal 
interest. 

"Then,  all  at  once,  his  plumy  tail  began  to 
wave.  Into  his  sad  eyes  sprang  a  flicker  of  warm 
friendliness.  Unbidden — oblivious  of  everyone 
else — he  trotted  across  to  where  the  Mistress  sat. 
He  put  one  tiny  white  paw  in  her  lap  and  stood 
thus,  looking  up  lovingly  into  her  face,  tail  awave, 
eyes  shining. 

"  'There's  no  question  whose  dog  he's  going  to 
be,'  laughed  the  Master.  'He's  elected  you — by 
acclamation.'  " 


111 

Not  content  with  being  the  husband  of  Mar- 
garet Sangster,  C.  M.  Sheridan  has  written  The 
Stag  Cook  Book.  I  would  have  it  understood 
that  this  is  an  honest-to-goodness  cook-book,  al- 
though I  readily  confess  that  there  is  plenty  of 
humour  throughout  its  pages.  Mr.  Sheridan  has 
acquired  various  unusual  and  unreplaceable 
recipes — I  believe  he  secured  from  Wladislaw 
Benda,  the  illustrator,  a  rare  and  secret  formula 
for  the  preparation  of  a  species  of  Hungarian  or 
Polish  pastry.  Now,  as  every  housewife  knows, 
and  as  no  man  except  a  Frenchman  or  somebody 
like  that  knows,  the  preparation  of  pastry  is  an 

[2>7] 


WHEN  WINTER  COMES  TO  MAIN  STREET 

intricate  art.  Simply  to  make  ordinary  French 
pastry  requires  innumerable  rollings  to  incredible 
thinnesses;  besides  which  the  pastry  has  to  be 
chilled ;  but  there  is  more  than  that  to  this  recon- 
dite substance  which  Mr.  Benda,  probably  under 
the  terms  of  the  Treaty  of  Brest-Litovsk,  surren- 
dered to  Mr.  Sheridan.  The  pastry  in  question  has 
to  be  executed  with  the  aid  of  geometrical  de- 
signs. Mr.  Sheridan  has  supplied  the  necessary 
front  elevation  and  working  plans.  He  shows  you 
where  you  fold  along  the  line  from  A  to  B — in 
other  words,  along  the  dotted  line.  Thus  no  man 
using  this  unique  cook-book  can  go  wrong  any 
more  than  his  wife  can  go  wrong  when  making  a 
new  dress  according  to  Pictorial  Review  or 
McCall's  or  Delineator  patterns. 

On  the  other  hand,  women  remain  still  chiefly 
responsible  for  the  food  we  eat.  Elizabeth  A. 
Monaghan's  What  to  Eat  and  How  to  Prepare  It 
is  an  orthodox  cook-book  in  contrast  with  Mr. 
Sheridan's  daring  adventure. 


IV 

Large  numbers  of  people  still  play  games.  I  do 
not  mean  cards  or  tennis  or  golf  or  any  of  the 
famous  outdoor  and  indoor  sports,  but  just  games, 
the  sort  of  things  that  are  sometimes  called  stunts 
and  that  make  the  life  of  the  party — or,  by  their 
absence  or  failure,  rob  the  evening  gathering  of 
all  its  vitality.     For  the  people  who  play  games, 

[218] 


WITH  FULL  DIRECTIONS 

Edna  Geister  is  the  one  best  bet.  Edna  Geister 
knows  all  about  stunts  and  games  and  parties  and 
she  brims  over  with  clever  ideas  for  the  hostess 
or  recreation  leader.  You  will  find  them  in  her 
book  Ice-breakers  and  the  Ice-breaker  Herself. 
The  second  section  of  this  book,  The  Ice-breaker 
Herself,  has  been  bound  separately  for  the  con- 
venience of  those  already  owning  Ice  Breakers. 
Miss  Geister's  latest  book,  It  Is  to  Laugh,  was 
written  primarily  for  adults  because  there  is  so 
much  material  already  available  for  the  recreation 
of  children.  Nevertheless  almost  every  one  of  the 
games  and  stunts  described  in  It  Is  to  Laugh  can 
be  used  for  children.  There  are  games  for  large 
groups  and  small  groups,  games  for  the  family, 
for  dinner  parties,  for  community  affairs  and  for 
almost  any  kind  of  social  gathering,  with  one 
chapter  devoted  to  out-of-door  and  picnic  pro- 
grammes. 

Playing  the  piano  is  not  a  game,  at  least  not  as 
Mark  Hambourg,  the  pianist  and  composer,  plays 
it.  Hambourg,  though  born  in  South  Russia  in 
1879,  the  eldest  son  of  the  late  Professor  Michel 
Hambourg,  has  for  years  been  a  naturalised  Eng- 
lishman. In  fact,  he  married  in  1907  the  Hon- 
ourable Dorothea  Mackenzie,  daughter  of  Lord 
Muir  Mackenzie.  And  the  pair  have  four  daugh- 
ters. Mark  Hambourg  was  a  pupil  of  Leschetit- 
zky  in  Vienna,  where  he  obtained  the  Liszt  schol- 
arship in  1894.  He  has  made  concert  appearances 
all  over  the  world,  his  third  American  tour  falling 

[219] 


WHEN  WINTER  COMES  TO  MAIN  STREET 

in  1907,  and  his  first  Canadian  tour  in  1910. 
Mark  Hambourg's  book  is  called  How  to 
Play  the  Fiano  and  the  text  is  helped  with  prac- 
tical illustrations  and  diagrams  and  a  complete 
compendium  of  live-finger  exercises,  scales,  ar- 
peggi,  thirds  and  octaves  as  practised  by  Ham- 
bourg. 


Those  who  read  The  Bookman  will  not  need 
to  be  told  that  the  articles  by  Robert  Cortes  Hol- 
liday  on  Writing  as  a  Business:  A  Practical 
Guide  for  Authors^  will  constitute  an  exceptional 
book.  The  great  point  about  Mr.  Holliday's 
chapters,  which  have  been  written  in  collaboration 
with  Alexander  Van  Rensselaer,  is  that  they  are 
disinterested.  There  has  been  an  immense 
amount  of  printed  matter,  some  of  it  in  book 
form,  telling  of  the  problems  that  confront  the 
writer,  especially  the  young  beginner.  As  a  rule, 
the  underlying  motive  was  to  induce  people  to 
write  so  that  someone  else  might  make  money  out 
of  their  efforts,  whether  the  writers  did  or  not. 
So-called  correspondence  schools  in  the  art  of 
writing,  so-called  literary  bureaus,  interested  in- 
dividuals anxious  to  earn  "commissions,"  and 
sometimes  individuals  who  purported  to  be  pub- 
lishers have  for  many  years  carried  on  a  continu- 
ous campaign  at  the  expense  of  persons  who  did 
not  know  how  to  write  but  who  fancied  they 
could  write  and  who,  above  everything,  craved  to 
[220] 


WITH  FULL  DIRECTIONS 

write — craved  seeing  themselves  in  print  and 
hearing  themselves  referred  to  as  "authors"  or 
"writers."  It  would  take  a  statistician  versed  in 
all  manner  of  mysteries  and  calculations  to  tell 
how  many  people  have  been  deluded  by  this  stuff, 
and  how  much  money  has  been  nuzzled  out  of 
them.  The  time  was  certainly  here  for  someone  in 
a  position  to  tell  the  truth  to  speak  up. 

And  of  Mr.  HoUiday's  qualifications  there  is 
no  question.  He  has  had  to  do  with  books  and 
authors  and  book  publishing  for  years.  He  was, 
as  his  readers  know,  for  a  number  of  years  in 
the  Scribner  bookstore.  He  was  with  Double- 
day,  Page  &  Company  at  Garden  City;  he  was 
with  George  H.  Doran  Company,  serving  not  only 
as  editor  of  The  Bookman  but  acting  in  other  edi- 
torial capacities.  He  is  now  connected  with 
Henry  Holt  &  Company.  As  an  author  he  is 
amply  established.  Therefore,  when  he  tells 
about  writing  and  book  publishing  and  book- 
selling, and  when  he  discusses  such  subjects  as 
"Publishing  Your  Own  Book,"  his  statements  are 
most  thoroughly  documented.  The  important 
thing,  however,  is  that  Mr.  HoUiday  is  disinter- 
ested, he  has  no  axe  to  grind  in  the  advice  he 
gives;  although  the  impressive  thing  about  his 
book  is  the  absence  of  advice  and  the  continual 
presentation  of  unvarnished  facts.  After  all,  con- 
fronted with  the  facts,  the  literary  aspirant  of 
ordinary  intelligence  must  and  should  reach  his 
own  conclusions  as  regards  what  he  wants  to  do 

[221] 


WHEN  WINTER  COMES  TO  MAIN  STREET 


and  how  best  to  essay  itj  This  is  a  sample  of  the 
kind  of  straightforwardness  to  which  Mr.  Hol- 
liday  adheres: 

"An  experienced  writer  'on  his  own'  may  earn 
a  couple  of  hundred  dollars  or  so  in  one  week,  and 
for  several  weeks  afterward  average  something 
like  $14.84.  The  beginner-writer  should  not  con- 
sider that  he  has  'arrived'  when  he  has  sold  one 
story,  or  even  several ;  it  may  be  a  year  before  he 
places  another.  And  the  future  of  a  writer  who 
may  be  having  a  very  fair  success  now  is  not  any 
too  secure.  Public  taste  changes.  New  orders 
come  in.  The  kind  of  thing  which  took  so  well 
yesterday  may  be  quite  out  of  fashion  tomorrow. 

"There  is  among  people  generally  much  mis- 
conception as  to  the  profits  ordinarily  derived  by 
the  author  from  the  publication  of  a  book.  The 
price  of  a  novel  today  is  about  two  dollars.  Usu- 
ally the  author  receives  a  royalty  of  about  fifteen 
cents  a  copy  on  the  first  two  thousand  copies  sold, 
and  about  twenty  cents  on  each  copy  thereafter. 
A  novel  which  sold  upward  of  50,000  copies 
would  bring  the  author  something  like  $10,000. 
Many  men  make  as  much  as  $10,000  by  a  year's 
work  at  some  other  business  or  profession  than 
authorship.  But  authors  who  make  that  amount 
in  a  year,  or  anything  near  that  amount,  are  ex- 
ceedingly rare.  A  book  is  regarded  by  the  pub- 
lisher as  highly  successful  if  it  sells  from  five  to 
ten  thousand  copies.  Far  and  away  the  greater 
number  of  books  published  do  not  sell  as  many 
[222] 


WITH  FULL  DIRECTIONS 

as  1,500  copies.  Many  far  less.  A  recently  pub- 
lished book,  which  received  a  very  cordial  'press,' 
has  had  an  uncommon  amount  of  publicity,  and 
the  advertisements  of  which  announce  that  it  is 
in  its  'fourth  printing,'  has,  after  about  half  a 
year,  earned  for  its  author  perhaps  $1,000.  Its 
sale  now  in  active  measure  is  over.  An  author  is 
fairly  fortunate  who  receives  as  much  as  $500  or 
$600  from  the  sale  of  his  book.  I  recall  an  ex- 
cellent story  published  something  over  a  year  ago 
which  was  much  praised  by  many  reviewers.  It 
took  the  author  probably  the  better  part  of  a  year 
to  write  it.  He  was  then  six  months  or  more 
getting  it  accepted.  He  has  not  been  able  to  place 
much  of  anything  since.  At  the  end,  then,  of 
two  years  and  a  half  he  has  received  from  his 
literary  labors  about  $110." 

Mr.  Van  Rensselaer  has  greatly  enhanced  the 
usefulness  of  Writing  as  a  Business  by  the  addi- 
tion of  very  complete  bibliographies. 

Illumination  and  Its  Development  in  the  Pres- 
ent Day,  by  Sidney  Farnsworth,  has  nothing  to  do 
with  street  or  indoor  lighting  but  has  a  great  deal 
to  do  with  lettering  and  illuminating  manuscripts. 
Mr.  Farnsworth  traces  the  growth  of  illumination 
from  its  birth,  showing,  by  means  of  numerous 
diagrams  and  drawings,  its  gradual  development 
through  the  centuries  from  mere  writing  to  the 
elaborate  poster  work  and  commercial  lettering 
of  the  present  day.  Although  other  books  have 
already  been  written  on  this  fascinating  subject, 

[223] 


WHEN  WINTER  COMES  TO  MAIN  STREET 

Mr.  Famsworth  breaks  new  ground  in  many  di- 
rections; he  treats  the  matter  from  the  modern 
standpoint  in  a  manner  which  makes  his  work  in- 
valuable not  only  to  students  of  the  art,  but  also 
to  the  rapidly-growing  public  interested  in  what 
has  hitherto  been  a  somewhat  exclusive  craft. 
The  book  is  well  illustrated. 


[224] 


Chapter   XV 
FRANK  SWINNERTON :  ANALYST  OF  LOVERS 


IT  is  as  an  analyst  of  lovers,  I  think,  that  Frank 
Swinnerton  claims  and  holds  his  place  among 
those  whom  we  still  sometimes  call  the  younger 
novelists  of  England. 

I  do  not  say  this  because  his  fame  was  achieved 
at  a  bound  with  Nocturne^  but  because  all  his 
novels  show  a  natural  preoccupation  with  the 
theme  of  love  between  the  sexes.  Usually  it  is  a 
pair  of  young  lovers  or  contrasted  pairs;  but  some- 
times this  is  interestingly  varied,  as  in  September, 
where  we  have  a  study  of  love  that  comes  to  a 
woman  in  middle  life. 

The  unique  character  of  Nocturne  makes  it 
very  hard  to  write  about  Swinnerton.  It  is  true 
that  Arnold  Bennett  wrote:  "I  am  prepared  to 
say  to  the  judicious  reader  unacquainted  with 
Swinnerton's  work,  'Read  Nocturne,'  and  to  stand 
or  fall,  and  to  let  him  stand  or  fall  by  the  result." 
At  the  same  time,  though  the  rule  is  that  we  must 
judge  an  artist  by  his  finest  work  and  a  genius 
by  his  greatest  masterpiece,  it  is  not  entirely  just 

[225] 


WHEN  WINTER  COMES  TO  MAIN  STREET 

to  estimate  the  living  writer  by  a  single  unique 
performance,  an  extraordinary  piece  of  virtuosity, 
which  Nocturne  unquestionably  is.  For  anyone 
who  wishes  to  understand  and  appreciate  Swin- 
nerton,  I  would  recommend  that  he  begin  with 
Coquette,  follow  it  with  September,  follow  that 
with  Shops  and  Houses  and  then  read  Nocturne. 
That  is,  I  would  have  made  this  recommendation 
a  few  months  ago,  but  so  representative  of  all 
sides  of  Swinnerton's  talent  is  his  new  novel.  The 
Three  Lovers,  that  I  should  now  prefer  to  say  to 
anyone  unacquainted  with  Swinnerton:  "Begin 
with  The  Three  Lovers."  And  after  that  I  would 
have  him  read  Coquette  and  the  other  books  in 
the  order  I  have  named.  After  he  had  reached 
and  finished  Nocturne,  I  would  have  him  turn  to 
the  several  earlier  novels — The  Happy  Family, 
On  the  Staircase,  and  The  Chaste  Wife. 


11 

The  Three  Lovers,  a  full-length  novel  which 
Swinnerton  finished  in  Devonshire  in  the  spring  of 
1922,  is  a  story  of  human  beings  in  conflict,  and 
it  is  also  a  picture  of  certain  phases  of  modern 
life.  A  young  and  intelligent  girl,  alone  in  the 
world,  is  introduced  abruptly  to  a  kind  of  life 
with  which  she  is  unfamiliar.  Thereafter  the 
book  shows  the  development  of  her  character  and 
her  struggle  for  the  love  of  the  men  to  whom  she 
is  most  attracted.  The  book  steadily  moves 
[226] 


FRANK   SWINNERTON 


[227] 


SWINNERTON :   ANALYST  OF  LOVERS 

through  its  earlier  chapters  of  introduction,  and 
growth  to  a  climax  that  is  both  dramatic  and  mov- 
ing. It  opens  with  a  characteristic  descriptive 
passage  from  which  I  take  a  few  sentences : 

"It  was  a  suddenly  cold  evening  towards  the 
end  of  September.  .  .  .  The  street  lamps  were 
sharp  brightnesses  in  the  black  night,  wickedly 
revealing  the  naked  rain-swept  paving-stones.  It 
was  an  evening  to  make  one  think  with  joy  of 
succulent  crumpets  and  rampant  fires  and  warm 
slippers  and  noggins  of  whisky;  but  it  was  not  an 
evening  for  cats  or  timid  people.  The  cats  were 
racing  about  the  houses,  drunken  with  primeval 
savagery;  the  timid  people  were  shuddering  and 
looking  in  distress  over  feebly  hoisted  shoulders, 
dreadfully  prepared  for  disaster  of  any  kind, 
afraid  of  sounds  and  shadows  and  their  own 
forgotten  sins,  .  .  .  The  wind  shook  the  win- 
dow-panes; soot  fell  down  all  the  chimneys; 
trees  continuously  rustled  as  if  they  were  try- 
ing to  keep  warm  by  constant  friction  and  move- 
ment." 

The  imagination  which  sees  in  the  movement  of 
trees  an  endeavour  to  keep  warm  is  not  less  sharp 
in  its  discernment  of  human  beings.  I  will  give 
one  other  passage,  a  conversation  between  Patricia 
Quin,  the  heroine,  and  another  girl : 

"  'Do  you  mean  he's  in  love  with  you*?'  asked 
Patricia.     'That  seems  to  be  what's  the  matter.' 

"  'Oho,  it  takes  two  to  be  in  love,'  scornfully 
cried  Amy.     'And  I'm  not  in  love  with  him.' 

[229] 


WHEN  WINTER  COMES  TO  MAIN  STREET 

"  'But  he's  your  friend.' 

"  'That's  just  it.  He  won't  recognise  that  men 
and  women  can  be  friends.  He's  a  very  decent 
fellow;  but  he's  full  of  this  sulky  jealousy,  and 
he  glowers  and  sulks  whenever  any  other  man 
comes  near  me.  Well,  that's  not  my  idea  of 
friendship.' 

"  'Nor  mine,'  echoed  Patricia,  trying  to  recon- 
struct her  puzzled  estimate  of  their  relations. 
'But  couldn't  you  stop  that?  Surely,  if  you  put 
it  clearly  to  him  .   .   .' 

"Amy  interrupted  with  a  laugh  that  was  almost 
shrill.    Her  manner  was  coldly  contemptuous. 

"  'You  are  priceless  I'  she  cried.  'You  say  the 
most  wonderful  things.' 

"  'Well,  /  should.' 

"  'I  wonder.'  Amy  moved  about,  collecting  the 
plates.  'You  see  .  .  .  some  day  I  shall  marry. 
And  in  a  weak  moment  I  said  probably  I'd  marry 
him.' 

"  'Oh,  Amy  I  Of  course  he's  jealous  I'  Swiftly, 
Patricia  did  the  young  man  justice. 

"  'I  didn't  give  him  any  right  to  be.  I  told  him 
I'd  changed  my  mind.  I've  told  him  lots  of  times 
that  probably  I  sha'n't  marry  him.' 

"  'But  you  keep  him.  Amy!  You  do  encour- 
age him.'  Patricia  was  stricken  afresh  with  a 
generous  impulse  of  emotion  on  Jack's  behalf.  'I 
mean,  by  not  telling  him  straight  out.  Surely  you 
can't  keep  a  man  waiting  like  that?  I  wonder  he 
doesn't  insist." 

[230] 


SWINNERTON :  ANALYST  OF  LOVERS 

"  'Jack  insist  I'  Amy  was  again  scornful.  'Not 
he!' 

"There  was  a  moment's  pause.  Innocently, 
Patricia  ventured  upon  a  charitable  interpreta- 
tion. 

"  'He  must  love  you  very  much.  But,  Amy,  if 
you  don't  love  him.' 

"  'What's  love  got  to  do  with  marriage*?'  asked 
Amy,  with  a  sourly  cynical  air. 

"  'Hasn't  it — everything?'  Patricia  was  full 
of  sincerity.  She  was  too  absorbed  in  this  story 
to  help  Amy  to  clear  the  table ;  but  on  finding  her- 
self alone  in  the  studio  while  the  crockery  was 
carried  away  to  the  kitchen  she  mechanically 
shook  the  crumbs  behind  the  gas-fire  and  folded 
the  napkin.  This  was  the  most  astonishing  mo- 
ment of  her  day. 

"Presently  Amy  returned,  and  sat  in  the  big 
armchair,  while,  seated  upon  the  podger  and  lean- 
ing back  against  the  wall,  Patricia  smoked  a 
cigarette. 

"  'You  see,  the  sort  of  man  one  falls  in  love 
with  doesn't  make  a  good  husband,'  announced 
Amy,  as  patiently  as  if  Patricia  had  been  in  fact  a 
child.  She  persisted  in  her  attitude  of  superior 
wisdom  in  the  world's  ways.  'It's  all  very 
well ;  but  a  girl  ought  to  be  able  to  live  with  any 
man  she  fancies,  and  then  in  the  end  marry 
the  safe  man  for  a  .  .  .  well,  for  life,  if  she 
likes.' 

"Patricia's  eyes  were  opened  wide. 

[231] 


WHEN  WINTER  COMES  TO  MAIN  STREET 

"  T  shouldn't  like  that,'  she  said.  'I  don't 
think  the  man  would  either.' 

"  'Bless  you,  the  men  all  do  it,'  cried  Amy,  con- 
temptuously. 'Don't  make  any  mistake  about 
that.' 

"  'I  don't  believe  it,'  said  Patricia.  'Do  you 
mean  that  my  father — or  your  father  ...'?' 

"  'Oh,  I  don't  know.  I  meant,  nowadays. 
Most  of  the  people  you  saw  last  night  are  living 
together  or  living  with  other  people.' 

"Patricia  was  aware  of  a  chill. 

"  'But  you've  never,'  she  urged.     'I've  never.' 

"  'No.'  Amy  was  obviously  irritated  by  the 
personal  application.  'That's  just  it.  I  say  we 
ouglit  to  be  free  to  do  what  we  like.  Men  do 
what  they  like.' 

"  'D'you  think  Jack  has  lived  with  other  girls'?' 

"  'My  dear  child,  how  do  I  know^  I  should 
hope  he  has.' 

"  'Hope  I     Amy,  you  do  make  me  feel  a  prig.' 

"  'Perhaps  5^ou  are  one.  Oh,  I  don't  know. 
I'm  sick  of  thinking,  thinking,  thinking  about  it 
all.     I  never  get  any  peace.' 

"  'Is  there  somebody  you  want  to  live  with*?' 

"  'No.  I  wish  there  was.  Then  I  should 
knoiv.^ 

"  'I  wonder  if  you  would  know,'  said  Patricia, 
in  a  low  voice.  'Amy,  do  you  really  know  what 
love  is"?  Because  I  don't.  I've  sometimes  let  men 
kiss  me,  and  it  doesn't  seem  to  matter  in  the  least. 
I  don't  particularly  want  to  kiss  them,  or  to  be 

[232] 


SWINNERTON:  ANALYST  OF  LOVERS 

kissed.  I've  never  seen  anything  in  all  the  flirta- 
tion that  goes  on  in  dark  corners.  It's  amusing 
once  or  twice;  but  it  becomes  an  awful  bore.  The 
men  don't  interest  you.  The  thought  of  living 
with  any  of  them  just  turns  me  sick.'  " 


111 

The  analysis,  in  The  Three  Lovers,  of  Patricia 
Quin  is  done  with  that  simplicity,  quiet  deftness 
and  inoffensive  frankness  which  is  the  hallmark  of 
Mr.  Swinnerton's  fiction.  And,  coming  at  last  to 
Nocturne,  I  fall  back  cheerfully  upon  the  praise 
accorded  that  novel  by  H.  G.  Wells  in  his  preface 
to  it.     Said  Mr.  Wells : 

"Such  a  writer  as  Mr.  Swinnerton  sees  life  and 
renders  it  with  a  steadiness  and  detachment  and 
patience  quite  foreign  to  my  disposition.  He  has 
no  underlying  motive.  He  sees  and  tells.  His 
aim  is  the  attainment  of  that  beauty  which  comes 
with  exquisite  presentation.  Seen  through  his 
art,  life  is  seen  as  one  sees  things  through  a  crystal 
lens,  more  intensely,  more  completed,  and  with 
less  turbidity.  There  the  business  begins  and  ends 
for  him.  He  does  not  want  you  or  anyone  to  do 
anything. 

"Mr.  Swinnerton  is  not  alone  among  recent 
writers  in  this  clear  detached  objectivity.  But 
Mr.  Swinnerton,  like  Mr.  James  Joyce,  does  not 
repudiate  the  depths  for  the  sake  of  the  surface. 

r^33] 


WHEN  WINTER  COMES  TO  MAIN  STREET 

His  people  are  not  splashes  of  appearance,  but 
living  minds.  Jenny  and  Emmy  in  this  book  are 
realities  inside  and  out;  they  are  imaginative  crea- 
tures so  complete  that  one  can  think  with  ease  of 
Jenny  ten  years  hence  or  of  Emmy  as  a  baby. 
The  fickle  Alf  is  one  of  the  most  perfect  Cockneys 
— a  type  so  easy  to  caricature  and  so  hard  to  get 
true — in  fiction.  If  there  exists  a  better  writing 
of  vulgar  lovemaking,  so  base,  so  honest,  so  touch- 
ingly  mean  and  so  touchingly  full  of  the  craving 
for  happiness  than  this,  I  do  not  know  of  it.  Only 
a  novelist  who  has  had  his  troubles  can  understand 
fully  what  a  dance  among  china  cups,  what  a  skat- 
ing over  thin  ice,  what  a  tight-rope  performance  is 
achieved  in  this  astounding  chapter.  A  false  note, 
one  fatal  line,  would  have  ruined  it  all.  On  the 
one  hand  lay  brutality;  a  hundred  imitative  louts 
could  have  written  a  similar  chapter  brutally, 
with  the  soul  left  out,  we  have  loads  of  such 
'strong  stuff'  and  it  is  nothing;  on  the  other  side 
was  the  still  more  dreadful  fall  into  sentimen- 
tality, the  tear  of  conscious  tenderness,  the  re- 
deeming glimpse  of  'better  things'  in  Alf  or  Emmy 
that  could  at  one  stroke  have  converted  their 
reality  into  a  genteel  masquerade, .  The  perfection 
of  Alf  and  Emmy  is  that  at  no  point  does  a  'na- 
ture's gentleman'  or  a  'nature's  lady'  show 
through  and  demand  our  refined  sympathy.  It  is 
only  by  comparison  with  this  supreme  conversa- 
tion that  the  affair  of  Keith  and  Jenny  seems  to 
fall  short  of  perfection.     But  that  also  is  at  last 

[234] 


SWINNERTON:    ANALYST  OF  LOVERS 

perfected,  I  think,  by  Jenny's  final,  'Keith  .  .  . 
Oh,  Keith!  .  .  .' 

"Above  these  four  figures  again  looms  the  ma- 
jestic invention  of  'Pa.'  Every  reader  can  appre- 
ciate the  truth  and  humour  of  Pa,  but  I  doubt  if 
anyone  without  technical  experience  can  realise 
how  the  atmosphere  is  made  and  completed,  and 
rounded  off  by  Pa's  beer,  Pa's  meals,  and  Pa's 
accident,  how  he  binds  the  bundle  and  makes  the 
whole  thing  one,  and  what  an  enviable  triumph 
his  achievement  is. 

"But  the  book  is  before  the  reader  and  I  will 
not  enlarge  upon  its  merits  further.  Mr.  Swin- 
nerton  has  written  four  or  five  other  novels  before 
this  one,  but  none  of  them  compares  with  it  in 
quality.  His  earlier  books  were  strongly  influ- 
enced by  the  work  of  George  Gissing;  they  have 
something  of  the  same  fatigued  greyness  of  tex- 
ture and  little  of  the  same  artistic  completeness 
and  intense  vision  of  Nocturne. 

"This  is  a  book  that  will  not  die.  It  is  per- 
fect, authentic  and  alive.  Whether  a  large  and 
immediate  popularity  will  fall  to  it,  I  cannot  say, 
but  certainly  the  discriminating  will  find  it  and 
keep  it  and  keep  it  alive.  If  Mr.  Swinnerton  were 
never  to  write  another  word  I  think  he  might 
count  on  this  much  of  his  work  living,  when  many 
of  the  more  portentous  reputations  of  today  may 
have  served  their  purpose  in  the  world  and  be- 
come no  more  than  fading  names." 

[235] 


WHEN  WINTER  COMES  TO  MAIN  STREET 

iv 

Arnold  Bennett  has  described  Swinnerton  per- 
sonally in  a  way  no  one  else  is  likely  to  surpass. 
I  will  prefix  a  few  elemental  facts  which  he  has 
neglected  and  then  will  let  him  have  his  say. 

Frank  Arthur  Swinnerton  was  born  in  Wood 
Green,  England,  in  1884,  the  youngest  son  of 
Charles  Swinnerton  and  Rose  Cottam.  He  mar- 
ried, a  few  years  ago,  Helen  Dircks,  a  poet;  her 
slim  little  book  of  verse,  Passenger,  was  published 
with  a  preface  by  Mr.  Swinnerton.  His  first  three 
novels  Swinnerton  destroyed.  His  first  novel  to 
be  published  was  The  Merry  Heart.  It  is  inter- 
esting to  know  that  Floyd  Dell  was  the  first 
American  to  appreciate  Swinnerton.  I  make  way 
for  Mr.  Bennett,  who  says : 

"One  day  perhaps  eight  or  nine  years  ago  I  re- 
ceived a  novel  entitled  The  Casement.  The  book 
was  accompanied  by  a  short,  rather  curt  note  from 
the  author,  Frank  Swinnerton,  politely  indicating 
that  if  I  cared  to  read  it  he  would  be  glad,  and 
implying  that  if  I  didn't  care  to  read  it,  he  should 
endeavour  still  to  survive.  I  would  quote  the  let- 
ter but  I  cannot  find  it — no  doubt  for  the  reason 
that  all  my  correspondence  is  carefully  filed  on 
the  most  modern  filing  system.  I  did  not  read 
The  Case?nent  for  a  long  time.  Why  should  I 
consecrate  three  irrecoverable  hours  or  so  to  the 
work  of  a  man  as  to  whom  I  had  no  credentials? 
Why  should' I  thus  introduce  foreign  matter  into 

[236] 


SWINNERTON:  ANALYST  OF  LOVERS 

the  delicate  cogwheels  of  my  programme  of  read- 
ing? However,  after  a  delay  of  weeks,  heaven  in 
its  deep  wisdom  inspired  me  with  a  caprice  to  pick 
up  the  volume. 

"I  had  read,  without  fatigue  but  on  the  other 
hand  without  passionate  eagerness,  about  a  hun- 
dred pages  before  the  thought  occurred  suddenly 
to  me :  'I  do  not  remember  having  yet  come  across 
one  single  ready-made  phrase  in  this  story.'  Such 
was  my  first  definable  thought  concerning  Frank 
Swinnerton.  I  hate  ready-made  phrases,  which 
in  my  view — and  in  that  of  Schopenhauer — are 
the  sure  mark  of  a  mediocre  writer.  I  began  to  be 
interested.  I  soon  said  to  myself:  'This  fellow 
has  a  distinguished  style.'  I  then  perceived  that 
the  character-drawing  was  both  subtle  and  origi- 
nal, the  atmosphere  delicious,  and  the  movement 
of  the  tale  very  original,  too.  The  novel  stirred 
m-e — not  by  its  powerfulness,  for  it  did  not  set 
out  to  be  powerful — but  by  its  individuality  and 
distinction.  I  thereupon  wrote  to  Frank  Swinner- 
ton. I  forget  entirely  what  I  said.  But  I  know 
that  I  decided  that  I  must  meet  him. 

"When  I  came  to  London,  considerably  later, 
I  took  measures  to  meet  him,  at  the  Authors'  Club. 
He  proved  to  be  young;  I  daresay  twenty-four  or 
twenty-five — medium  height,  medium  looks,  me- 
dium clothes,  somewhat  reddish  hair,  and  lively 
eyes.  If  I  had  seen  him  in  a  motorbus  I  should 
never  have  said,  'A  remarkable  chap' — no  more 
than  if  I  had  seen  myself  in  a  motorbus.    My  im- 

[237] 


WHEN  WINTER  COMES  TO  MAIN  STREET 

pressions  of  the  interview  were  rather  like  my  im- 
pressions of  the  book:  at  first  somewhat  negative, 
and  only  very  slowly  becoming  positive.  He  was 
reserved,  as  became  a  young  author;  I  was  re- 
served, as  became  an  older  author;  we  were  both 
reserved,  as  became  Englishmen.  Our  views  on 
the  only  important  thing  in  the  world — that  is 
to  say,  fiction — agreed,  not  completely,  but  in 
the  main ;  it  would  never  have  done  for  us  to  agree 
completely.  I  was  as  much  pleased  by  what  he 
didn't  say  as  by  what  he  said;  quite  as  much  by 
the  indications  of  the  stock  inside  the  shop  as  by 
the  display  in  the  window.  The  interview  came 
to  a  calm  close.  My  knowledge  of  him  acquired 
from  it  amounted  to  this,  that  he  held  decided  and 
righteous  views  upon  literature,  that  his  heart  was 
not  on  his  sleeve,  and  that  he  worked  in  a  pub- 
lisher's office  during  the  day  and  wrote  for  himself 
in  the  evenings. 

"Then  I  saw  no  more  of  Swinnerton  for  a  rela- 
tively long  period.  I  read  other  books  of  his.  I 
read  The  Young  Idea,  and  The  Happy  Family, 
and,  I  think,  his  critical  work  on  George  Gissing. 
The  Happy  Family  marked  a  new  stage  in  his 
development.  It  has  some  really  piquant  scenes, 
and  it  revealed  that  minute  knowledge  of  middle- 
class  life  in  the  nearer  suburbs  of  London,  and 
that  disturbing  insight  into  the  hearts  and  brains 
of  quite  unfashionable  girls,  which  are  two  of  his 
principal  gifts.  I  read  a  sketch  of  his  of  a  com- 
monplace crowd  walking  around  a  bandstand 
[23<S] 


SWINNERTON:  ANALYST  OF  LOVERS 

which  brought  me  to  a  real  decision  as  to  his  quali- 
ties. The  thing  was  like  life,  and  it  was  bathed 
in  poetry. 

"Our  acquaintance  proceeded  slowly,  and  I 
must  be  allowed  to  assert  that  the  initiative  which 
pushed  it  forward  was  mine.  It  made  a  jump 
when  he  spent  a  week-end  in  the  Thames  Estuary 
on  my  yacht.  If  any  reader  has  a  curiosity  to 
know  what  my  yacht  is  not  like,  he  should  read 
the  striking  yacht  chapter  in  Nocturne.  I  am 
convinced  that  Swinnerton  evolved  the  yacht  in 
Nocturne  from  my  yacht;  but  he  ennobled,  mag- 
nified, decorated,  enriched  and  bejewelled  it  till 
honestly  I  could  not  recognise  my  wretched  vessel. 
The  yacht  in  Nocturne  is  the  yacht  I  want,  ought 
to  have,  and  never  shall  have.  I  envy  him  the 
yacht  in  Nocturne.,  and  my  envy  takes  a  malicious 
pleasure  in  pointing  out  a  mistake  in  the  glowing 
scene.  He  anchors  his  yacht  in  the  middle  of  the 
Thames — as  if  the  tyrannic  authorities  of  the 
Port  of  London  would  ever  allow  a  yacht,  or  any 
other  craft,  to  anchor  in  midstream ! 

"After  the  brief  cruise  our  friendship  grew 
rapidly.  I  now  know  Swinnerton — probably  as 
well  as  any  man  knows  him;  I  have  penetrated 
into  the  interior  of  the  shop.  He  has  done  several 
things  since  I  first  knew  him — rounded  the  corner 
of  thirty,  grown  a  beard,  under  the  orders  of  a 
doctor,  and  physically  matured.  Indeed,  he 
looks  decidedly  stronger  than  in  fact  he  is — he 
was  never  able  to  pass  the  medical  examination 

[239] 


WHEN  WINTER  COMES  TO  MAIN  STREET 

for  the  army.  He  is  still  in  the  business  of  pub- 
lishing, being  one  of  the  principal  personages  in 
the  ancient  and  well-tried  firm  of  Chatto  & 
Windus,  the  English  publishers  of  Swinburne  and 
Mark  Twain.  He  reads  manuscripts,  including 
his  own — and  including  mine.  He  refuses  manu- 
scripts, though  he  did  accept  one  of  mine.  He 
tells  authors  what  they  ought  to  do  and  ought  not 
to  do.  He  is  marvellously  and  terribly  par- 
ticular and  fussy  about  the  format  of  the  books 
issued  by  his  firm.  Questions  as  to  fonts  of  type, 
width  of  margins,  disposition  of  title-pages,  tint 
and  texture  of  bindings  really  do  interest  him. 
And  misprints — especially  when  he  has  read  the 
proofs  himself — give  him  neuralgia  and  even 
worse  afflictions.  Indeed  he  is  the  ideal  pub- 
lisher for  an  author. 

"Nevertheless,  publishing  is  only  a  side-line  of 
his.  He  still  writes  for  himself  in  the  evenings 
and  at  week-ends — the  office  never  sees  him  on 
Saturdays. 

"Frank  Swinnerton  has  other  gifts.  He  is  a 
surpassingly  good  raconteur.  By  which  I  do  not 
signify  that  the  man  who  meets  Swinnerton  for 
the  first,  second  or  third  time  will  infallibly  ache 
with  laughter  at  his  remarks.  Swinnerton  only 
blossoms  in  the  right  atmosphere;  he  must  know 
exactly  where  he  is;  he  must  be  perfectly  sure  of 
his  environment,  before  the  flower  uncloses.  And 
he  merely  relates  what  he  has  seen,  what  he  has 
taken  part  in.  The  narrations  would  be  naught 
[240] 


SWINNERTON:  ANALYST  OF  LOVERS 

if  he  were  not  the  narrator.  His  effects  are  helped 
by  the  fact  that  he  is  an  excellent  mimic  and  by 
his  utter  realistic  mercilessness.  But  like  all  first- 
class  realists  he  is  also  a  romantic,  and  in  his 
mercilessness  there  is  a  mysterious  touch  of  funda- 
mental benevolence — as  befits  the  attitude  of  one 
who  does  not  worry  because  human  nature  is  not 
something  different  from  what  it  actually  is. 
Lastly,  in  this  connection,  he  has  superlatively  the 
laugh  known  as  the  'infectious  laugh.'  When  he 
laughs  everybody  laughs,  everybody  has  to  laugh. 
There  are  men  who  tell  side-splitting  tales  with 
the  face  of  an  undertaker — for  example,  Irvin 
Cobb.  There  are  men  who  can  tell  side-splitting 
tales  and  openly  and  candidly  rollick  in  them 
from  the  first  word;  and  of  these  latter  is  Frank 
Swinnerton.  But  Frank  Swinnerton  can  be  more 
cruel  than  Irvin  Cobb.  Indeed,  sometimes  when 
he  is  telling  a  story,  his  face  becomes  exactly  like 
the  face  of  Mephistopheles  in  excellent  humour 
with  the  world's  sinfulness  and  idiocy. 

"Swinnerton's  other  gift  is  the  critical.  It  has 
been  said  that  an  author  cannot  be  at  once  a  first- 
class  critic  and  a  first-class  creative  artist.  To 
which  absurdity  I  reply:  What  about  William 
Dean  Howells?  And  what  about  Henry  James, 
to  name  no  other  names  ^  Anyhow,  if  Swinner- 
ton excels  in  fiction  he  also  excels  in  literary  criti- 
cism. The  fact  that  the  literary  editor  of  the 
Manchester  Guardian  wrote  and  asked  him  to 
write  literary  criticism  for  the  Manchester  Guar- 

[241] 


WHEN  WINTER  COMES  TO  MAIN  STREET 

dian  will  perhaps  convey  nothing  to  the  American 
citizen.  But  to  the  Englishman  of  literary  taste 
and  experience  it  has  enormous  import.  The 
Manchester  Guardian  publishes  the  most  fastidi- 
ous and  judicious  literary  criticism  in  Britain. 

"I  recall  that  once  when  Swinnerton  was  in  my 
house  I  had  there  also  a  young  military  officer 
with  a  mad  passion  for  letters  and  a  terrific  ambi- 
tion to  be  an  author.  The  officer  gave  me  a  manu- 
script to  read.  I  handed  it  over  to  Swinnerton  to 
read,  and  then  called  upon  Swinnerton  to  criticise 
it  in  the  presence  of  both  of  us.  'Your  friend  is 
very  kind,'  said  the  officer  to  me  afterward,  'but 
it  was  a  frightful  ordeal.' 

"The  book  on  George  Gissing  I  have  already 
mentioned.  But  it  was  Swinnerton's  work  on 
R.  L.  Stevenson  that  made  the  trouble  in  London. 
It  is  a  destructive  work.  It  is  bland  and  impar- 
tial, and  not  bereft  of  laudatory  passages,  but 
since  its  appearance  Stevenson's  reputation  has 
never  been  the  same." 

Books 
by  Frank  Swinnerton 

THE    MERRY    HEART 
THE    YOUNG    IDEA 
THE    CASEMENT 
THE    HAPPY    FAMILY 

GEORGE    gissing:    A    CRITICAL    STUDY 
R.    L.    STEVENSON  :    A    CRITICAL   STUDY 
[242] 


SWINNERTON:   ANALYST  OF  LOVERS 

ON   THE    STAIRCASE 

THE  CHASTE  WIFE 

NOCTURNE 

SHOPS  AND  HOUSES 

SEPTEMBER 

COOUETTE 

THE  THREE   LOVERS 

Sources 
on  Frank  Swinnerton 

Who's  Who  [In  England]. 

Frank  Swinnerton:  Personal  Sketches  by  Arnold 

Bennett,    H.     G.    Wells,    Grant    Overton. 

Booklet   published    by    george    h.    doran 

COMPANY,  1920. 
Private  Information. 


[243] 


Chapter  XVI 

AN  ARMFUL  OF  NOVELS,  WITH  NOTES  ON 
THE  NOVELISTS 


THE  quiet,  the  calm,  the  extreme  individual- 
ism, and  the  easy-going  self -content  of  my 
birthplace  and  early  habitat — the  Eastern  Shore 
of  Maryland,  have  been,  I  fear,  the  dominating 
influences  of  my  life,"  writes  Sophie  Kerr. 
"Thank  heaven,  I  had  a  restless,  energetic,  and 
very  bad-tempered  father  to  leaven  them,  a  man 
with  a  biting  tongue  and  a  kind  heart,  a  keen 
sense  of  the  ridiculous  and  a  passion  for  honesty 
in  speech  and  action.  I,  the  younger  of  his  two 
children,  was  his  constant  companion.  I  tagged 
after  him,  every  day  and  all  day.  Even  when  I 
was  very  small  he  interested  me — and  very  few 
fathers  ever  really  interest  their  children. 

"The  usual  life  of  a  girl  in  a  small  semi- 
Southern  town  was  mine.  I  learned  to  cook,  I 
made  most  of  my  own  frocks,  I  embroidered  ex- 
cessively, I  played  the  violin  worse  than  any  other 
person  in  the  world,  I  went  away  to  college  and 
I  came  back  again.     I  wasn't  a  popular  girl  so- 

[244] 


AN  ARMFUL  OF  NOVELS 

cially  for  two  reasons.  I  had  inherited  my  fa- 
ther's gift  of  sarcasm,  and  there  was  the  even 
greater  handicap  of  a  beautiful,  popular,  socially 
malleable  older  sister.    Beside  her  I  was  nowhere. 

"But  I  wanted  to  write,  so  I  didn't  care.  I  got 
my  father  to  buy  me  a  second-hand  typewriter, 
and  learned  to  run  it  with  two  fingers.  And  I 
wrote.  I  even  sold  some  of  the  stuff.  The  Coun- 
try Gentleman  bought  one  of  my  first  stories,  and 
the  Ladies'  World  bought  another.  This  was 
glorious. 

"Then  I  got  a  job  on  the  Pittsburgh  Chronicle- 
Telegraph,  an  afternoon  newspaper  owned  by 
Senator  Oliver.  Later  I  went  to  The  Gazette- 
Times,  the  morning  paper  also  owned  by  the 
Senator.  A  few  years  later  I  came  to  New  York 
and  found  a  place  on  the  staff  of  the  Woman's 
Home  Companion,  eventually  becoming  Manag- 
ing Editor.  Two  years  ago  I  resigned  my  edito- 
rial job  to  give  all  my  time  to  writing.  Of  course 
I  had  been  writing  pretty  steadily  anyway,  but 
holding  my  job  too. 

"I  had  expected,  when  I  gave  up  ofRce  work,  to 
find  my  leisure  time  an  embarrassment.  I  planned 
so  many  things  to  do,  how  I  would  see  all  my 
friends  often,  how  I  would  travel,  read,  do  all 
sorts  of  delightful  things  that  double  work  had 
before  made  impossible.  But  I've  done  none  of 
them.  I  haven't  nearly  as  much  time  as  I  had 
when  I  hadn't  any  time  at  all,  and  that's  the 
honest  truth. 

[245] 


WHEN  WINTER  COMES  TO  MAIN  STREET 

"If  only  I  could  arrange  a  multiple  existence — 
one  life  for  work;  one  for  the  machinery  of  life, 
housekeeping,  getting  clothes  made,  shopping; 
one  for  seeing  my  friends,  travel,  visiting;  one  life 
for  the  other  diversions  such  as  music,  the  theatre, 
clubs,  politics,  one  life  for  just  plain  loafing. 
Now  that  would  be  wonderful.  But  to  crowd  it 
all  into  twenty-four  hours  a  day — no,  too  much 
of  it  gets  squeezed  out. 

"What  do  I  like  the  most?  Comfort,  I  think. 
And  old  painted  satinwood,  and  cats  and  prize- 
fights, and  dancing,  and  Spanish  shawls,  and  look- 
ing at  the  ocean,  and  having  my  own  way.  And 
I  dislike  argument,  and  perfume,  and  fat  women, 
and  people  who  tell  the  sort  of  lies  that  simply 
insult  your  intelligence,  and  men  who  begin  let- 
ters 'Dear  Lady,'  and  long  earrings,  and  intoler- 
ance." 

All  of  which  is  excellent  preparation  for  the 
reader  of  Sophie  Kerr's  new  novel.  One  Thing  Is 
Certain.  Those  who  read  her  Fainted  Meadows 
will  expect  and  will  find  in  this  new  novel  the 
same  charming  background,  but  they  will  find  a 
much  more  dramatic  story.  Since  the  novel  is  one 
of  surprise,  with  an  event  at  its  close  which  throws 
everything  that  went  before  in  a  new,  a  curious,  a 
startling  and  profoundly  significant  light,  I  can- 
not indulge  in  any  further  description  of  it  in  this 
place.  But  I  do  wish  to  quote  some  sentences 
from  a  letter  Sophie  Kerr  wrote  me : 

"I  wanted  to  show  that  when  lives  get  out  of 

[246] 


AN  ARMFUL  OF  NOVELS 

plumb,  the  way  to  straighten  them  is  not  with  a 
violent  gesture.  That  when  we  do  seize  them, 
and  try  to  jerk  them  straight  again,  we  invariably 
let  ourselves  in  for  long  years  of  unhappiness  and 
remorse.  Witness  Louellen.  In  two  desperate 
attempts  ...  she  tries  to  change  the  whole  cur- 
rent and  colour  of  her  life." 

So  much  for  the  essential  character  of  the  story, 
but  there  is  a  question  in  my  mind  as  to  what,  in 
the  story,  readers  will  consider  the  true  essential  I 
I  think  for  very  many  it  will  not  be  the  action, 
unusual  and  dramatic  as  that  is,  but  the  picture 
of  a  peculiar  community,  one  typical  of  Mary- 
land's Eastern  Shore,  where  we  have  farmer  folk 
in  whom  there  lives  the  spirit  and  tradition  of  a 
landed  aristocracy.  The  true  essential  with  such 
readers,  will  be  the  individuals  who  are  drawn 
with  such  humour  and  skill,  the  mellowness  of 
the  scene;  even  such  a  detail  as  the  culinary  tri- 
umph that  was  Louellen's  wedding  dinner.  A 
marvellous  and  incomparable  meal !  One  reads 
of  it,  his  mouth  watering  and  his  stomach  crying 
out. 

11 

The  House  of  Five  Swords,  by  Tristram 
Tupper,  is  a  gallant  representative  of  those  novels 
which  we  are  beginning  to  get  in  the  inevitable 
reaction  from  such  realism  as  Main  Street  and 
Moon-Calf,  a  romantic  story  of  age  and  youth,  of 
love  and  hate,  of  bitter  unyielding  hardness,  and 

[247] 


WHEN  WINTER  COMES  TO  MAIN  STREET 

of  melting  pity  and  tenderness.  It  begins  with 
the  Robin,  age  seven,  with  burnished  curls,  view- 
ing with  awestruck  delight  five  polished  swords 
against  the  shining  dark  wall  in  Colonial  House, 
where  she  had  gone  to  deliver  the  Colonel's  boots ! 
She  forgot  the  boots.  She  lifted  two  of  the 
swords  from  the  wall,  crossed  them  on  the  floor 
and  danced  the  sword  dance  of  Scotland.  From 
the  doorway  a  white-haired  old  figure  watched 
with  narrowed  eyes  and  tightened  mouth.  Then 
the  storm  broke.   .   .   . 

The  House  of  Five  Swords  is  Mr.  Tupper's 
first  novel.  A  native  of  Virginia,  he  has  done 
newspaper  work,  has  tramped  a  good  deal  and  was 
fooling  with  the  study  of  law  when  American 
troops  were  ordered  to  the  Mexican  border.  After 
that  experience  he  went  overseas.  On  his  return 
from  the  war,  he  tried  writing  and  met  with  rapid 
success. 

•  •  • 

ni 

Readers  of  Baroness  Orczy's  novels  will  wel- 
come Nicolette. 

This  is  essentially  a  love  story,  with  the  scene 
laid  in  the  mountains  of  Provence  in  the  early 
days  of  the  Restoration  of  King  Louis  XVIII  to 
the  throne  of  France.  An  ancient  half- ruined 
chateau  perches  among  dwarf  olives  and  mimosa, 
orange  and  lemon  groves.  There  is  a  vivid  con- 
trast between  the  prosperity  of  Jaume  Deydier,  a 
rich  peasant-proprietor,  and  the  grinding  poverty 

[248] 


AN  ARMFUL  OF  NOVELS 

of  the  proud  and  ancient  family  of  de  Ventadour, 
whose  last  scion,  Bertrand,  goes  to  seek  fortune  in 
Paris  and  there  becomes  affianced  to  a  wealthy 
and  beautiful  heiress.  Nicolette,  the  daugh- 
ter of  Jaume  Deydier,  whose  ancestor  had  been  a 
lackey  in  the  service  of  the  Comte  de  Ventadour, 
is  passionately  in  love  with  Bertrand,  but  a  bitter 
feud  keeps  the  lovers  for  long  apart. 

There  will  be  a  new  novel  this  autumn,  Ann 
and  Her  Mother,  by  O.  Douglas,  whose  Penny 
Plain  gave  great  pleasure  to  its  readers.  "Penny 
plain,"  if  you  remember,  was  the  way  Jean  de- 
scribed the  lot  of  herself  and  her  brothers  whom 
she  mothered  in  the  Scottish  cottage;  but  mat- 
ters were  somewhat  changed  when  romance 
crossed  the  threshold  in  the  person  of  the  Hon- 
ourable Pamela  and  a  bitter  old  millionaire  who 
came  to  claim  the  house  as  his  own. 

Ann  and  Her  Mother  is  the  story  of  a  Scotch 
family  as  seen  through  the  eyes  of  the  mother 
and  her  daughter.  The  author  of  Penny  Plain 
and  Ann  and  Her  Mother  is  a  sister  of  John 
Buchan,  author  of  The  Thirty-nine  Steps,  The 
Path  of  the  King,  and  many  other  books. 

December  Love,  by  Robert  Hichens,  will  have 
a  greater  popularity  than  any  of  his  novels  since 
The  Garden  of  Allah.  It  is  a  question  whether 
this  uncannily  penetrative  study  of  power  and  the 
need  for  love  of  a  woman  of  sixty  does  not  sur- 
pass The  Garden  of  Allah.  In  Lady  Sellingworth, 
Mr.  Hichens  is  dealing  with  a  brilliant  woman. 

[249] 


WHEN  WINTER  COMES  TO  MAIN  STREET 

The  theme  is  daring  and  calls  for  both  skill  and 
delicacy.  Of  the  action,  one  really  should  not 
say  very  much,  lest  one  spoil  the  book  for  the 
reader.  The  loss  of  the  Sellingworth  jewels  in 
Paris  had  caused  a  sensation  in  the  midst  of  which 
Lady  Sellingworth  was  silent.  She  declined  to 
discuss  the  disappearance  of  the  jewels.  There 
followed  the  advent  at  No.  4  Berkeley  Square  of 
Alick  Craven,  a  man  of  thirty,  vigorous,  attrac- 
tive and  decidedly  a  somebody.  But  inexplicably 
— at  any  rate  without  explanation — Lady  Selling- 
worth  retired  from  society  when  Craven  appeared. 

Tell  England  by  Ernest  Raymond  is  a  novel 
which  has  been  sensationally  successful  in  Eng- 
land. It  is  a  war  story  and  I  will  give  you  some 
of  the  opening  paragraphs  of  the  "Prologue  by 
Padre  Monty": 

"In  the  year  that  the  Colonel  died  he  took  little 
Rupert  to  see  the  swallows  fly  away.  I  can  find 
no  better  beginning  than  that. 

"When  there  devolved  upon  me  as  a  labour  of 
love  the  editing  of  Rupert  Ray's  book.  Tell  Eng- 
land^  I  carried  the  manuscript  to  my  room  one 
bright  autumn  afternoon  and  read  it  during  the 
fall  of  a  soft  evening,  till  the  light  failed,  and  my 
eyes  burned  with  the  strain  of  reading  in  the  dark. 
I  could  hardly  leave  his  ingenuous  tale  to  rise  and 
turn  on  the  gas.  Nor,  perhaps,  did  I  want  such 
artificial  brightness.  There  are  times  when  one 
prefers  the  twilight.  Doubtless  the  tale  held  me 
fascinated  because  it  revealed  the  schooldays  of 

[250] 


AN  ARMFUL  OF  NOVELS 

those  boys  whom  I  met  in  their  young  manhood 
and  told  afresh  that  wild  old  Gallipoli  adventure 
which  I  shared  with  them.  Though,  sadly  enough, 
I  take  Heaven  to  witness  that  I  was  not  the  ideal- 
ised creature  whom  Rupert  portrays.  God  bless 
them,  how  these  boys  will  idealise  us  I 

"Then  again,  as  Rupert  tells  you,  it  was  I  who 
suggested  to  him  the  writing  of  his  story.  And 
well  I  recall  how  he  demurred,  asking: 

'"But  what  am  I  to  write  about'?'  For  he 
was  always  diffident  and  unconscious  of  his 
power. 

"  'Is  Gallipoli  nothing  to  write  about ^'  I  re- 
torted. 'And  you  can't  have  spent  five  years  at  a 
great  public  school  like  Kensington  without  one 
or  two  sensational  things.  Pick  them  out  and  let 
us  have  them.  For  whatever  the  modern  theorists 
say,  the  main  duty  of  a  story-teller  is  certainly  to 
tell  stories.'  " 

This  prologue  is  followed  by  the  novel  which 
begins  with  English  public  school  life  in  the 
fashion  of  Sonia  and  other  novels  American  read- 
ers are  familiar  with.  The  main  theme  of  the 
book  is  Gallipoli. 

The  new  novel  by  J.  E.  Buckrose  is  A  Knight 
Among  Ladies.  Mrs.  Buckrose  says  that  the  char- 
acter of  Sid  Dummeris  in  this  book  is  modelled 
upon  an  actual  person.  "He  did  actually  live  in  a 
remote  country  place  where  I  used  to  stay  a  great 
deal  when  I  was  a  child  and  as  he  has  been  gone 
twenty  years,  I  thought  I  might  employ  my  exact 

[251] 


WHEN  WINTER  COMES  TO  MAIN  STREET 

memories  of  him  without  hurting  anyone."  This 
was  in  answer  to  questions  asked  by  The  Bookman 
(London)  of  a  number  of  English  writers.  The 
London  Bookman  wanted  to  find  out  if  novelists 
generally  drew  their  characters  from  actual  peo- 
ple. The  replies  showed  that  this  proceeding  was 
very  rare.  Mrs.  Buckrose  recalled  only  one  other 
instance  in  which  she  had  used  an  actual  person 
in  her  fiction.  Mrs.  Buckrose  is  Mrs.  Falconer 
Jameson.  She  lives  at  Hornsea,  East  Yorkshire, 
and  says: 

"My  real  hobby  is  my  writing — as  it  was  my 
secret  pleasure  from  the  age  of  nine  until  I  was 
over  thirty  when  I  first  attempted  to  publish.  I 
look  after  my  chickens,  my  house  and  a  rather 
delicate  husband;  write  my  books  and  try  to  do 
my  duty  to  my  neighbour  I" 


IV 

Back  of  the  new  novel  by  Margaret  Culkin 
Banning,  Spellbinders^  is  the  question:  Has  the 
vote  and  its  consequent  widening  of  the  mental 
horizon  introduced  a  brand  new  element  of  dis- 
cord or  a  factor  for  mutual  support  into  modern 
marriage?  The  household  of  the  George  Flan- 
dons  was  almost  wrecked  by  it.  That  his  wife 
should  accept  the  opportunity  to  play  her  part  in 
State  and  National  affairs  seemed  to  George 
Flandon  a  desertion  of  her  real  duty. 

Mrs.  Banning  has  written  a  novel  which  will 

[252] 


AN  ARMFUL  OF  NOVELS 

surprise  those  who  remember  her  only  by  her  first 
novel,  This  Marrying.  The  surprise  will  be  less 
for  those  who  read  her  second  novel,  Half  Loaves^ 
for  they  must  have  been  struck  by  the  real  under- 
standing she  showed  of  the  married  relationship 
and  the  marked  increase  in  her  skill  as  a  writer. 
Spellbinders  is  the  sort  of  work  one  looks  for  after 
such  a  good  novel  as  Half  Loaves. 

Mrs.  Banning,  who  was  married  in  1914,  lives 
in  Duluth.  A  graduate  of  Vassar,  her  first  novel 
was  written  in  one  of  Margaret  Mayo's  cottages 
at  Harmon,  New  York.  She  is  of  purely  Irish 
ancestry,  related  to  the  Plunkett  family  which 
bred  both  statesmen  and  revolutionaries  for  Ire- 
land. On  the  other  side  there  was  a  Colonel  Cul- 
kin,  who,  Mrs.  Banning  says,  "came  over  at  the 
time  of  the  Revolution  but  unfortunately  fought 
on  the  wrong  side,  so  we  forget  him  and  begin  our 
Culkin  lineage  in  this  country  with  the  Culkin  who 
came  over  at  the  famous  time  of  the  'potato-rot.'  " 
That  would  be  the  Irish  famine  of  1846,  no  doubt. 

Sunny-San,  Onoto  Watanna's  first  novel  in  six 
years,  has  been  the  signal  for  her  re-entrance  not 
only  into  the  world  of  fiction,  but  the  world  of 
motion  pictures  and  plays.  Even  before  Sunny- 
San  was  ready  as  a  book,  the  motion  picture  pro- 
ducers were  on  the  author's  track.  A  large  sum 
was  paid  cash  down  for  the  picture  rights  to  the 
novel  and  then  the  prospect  of  a  picture  was  laid 
aside  while  the  possibilities  of  a  play  were  esti- 
mated.   These  were  seen  to  be  exceptionally  good. 

[253] 


WHEN  WINTER  COMES  TO  MAIN  STREET 

Here  was  a  story  of  young  American  boys  travel- 
ling in  Japan  and  coming  upon  a  still  younger 
Japanese  girl,  threatened  with  cruelty  and  unhap- 
piness.  The  young  men  endowed  Sunny-San,  so 
to  speak,  planking  down  enough  money  to  secure 
her  protection  and  education.  Thereupon  they 
continued  blithely  on  their  travels  and  forgot  all 
about  her. 

Some  years  later  a  well-educated,  dainty  and 
exceedingly  attractive  Japanese  girl  presents  her- 
self on  the  doorstep  of  a  house  in  New  York  where 
one  of  the  young  men  resides.  Situation  I  What 
shall  the  young  man  do  with  his  charming  and 
unexpected  protegee  I  In  view  of  the  prolonged 
success  of  Fay  Bainter  in  the  play.  East  Is  West, 
it  was  obviously  the  thing  to  make  a  play  out  of 
Sun?2y-San.  And  this,  I  believe,  is  being  done  as 
I  write.  In  the  meantime  Onoto  Watanna,  who 
is  really  Mrs.  Winnifred  Reeve,  and  who  lives  on 
a  ranch  near  Calgary,  Canada,  is  very  busy  with 
her  Canadian  stories  which  have  excited  the  en- 
thusiasm of  magazine  editors.  I  am  confident 
that  she  will  do  a  Canadian  novel ;  the  more  so 
because  she  tells  me  that,  despite  the  success  of 
Sunny-San  and  the  enormous  success  of  her 
earlier  Japanese  stories,  like  A  Japanese  Nightin- 
gale, her  interest  is  really  centred  at  present  in 
Canada,  its  people  and  backgrounds. 


[254] 


AN  ARMFUL  OF  NOVELS 


Pending  Dorothy  Speare's  second  novel,  let  me 
suggest  that  those  who  have  not  done  so  read  her 
first,  Da?icers  in  the  Dark.  That  a  young  woman 
just  out  of  Smith  College  should  write  this  novel, 
that  the  novel  should  then  begin  immediately  sell- 
ing at  a  great  rate,  and  that  David  Belasco  should 
demand  a  play  constructed  from  the  novel  is  alto- 
gether a  sequence  to  cause  surprise.  I  have  had 
letters  from  older  people  who  said  frankly  that 
they  could  not  express  themselves  about  Dancers 
in  the  Dark,  because  it  dealt  with  a  life  with 
which  they  were  utterly  unfamiliar — which,  in 
some  cases,  they  did  not  know  existed.  And  yet  it 
does  exist !  The  demand  for  the  book,  the  avidity 
with  which  it  has  been  read  and  the  intemperance 
with  which  it  has  been  discussed  testify  that  in 
Dancers  in  the  Dark  Miss  Speare  wrote  a  book 
with  truth  in  it.  I  suppose  it  might  be  said  of  her 
first  novel — though  I  should  not  agree  in  saying 
it — that,  like  F.  Scott  Fitzgerald's  This  Side  of 
Paradise,  it  had  every  conceivable  fault  except 
the  fatal  fault;  it  did  not  fail  to  live.  The 
amount  of  publicity  that  this  book  received  was 
astonishing.  I  have  handled  clippings  from 
newspapers  all  over  the  country — and  not  mere 
"items"  but  "spreads'  with  pictures — in  which 
the  epigrammatic  utterances  of  the  characters  in 
Dancers  were  reprinted  and  their  truth  or  falsity 
debated  hotly.    Is  the  modern  girl  an  "excitement 

[255] 


WHEN  WINTER  COMES  TO  MAIN  STREET 

eater"?  Does  she  "live  from  man  to  man  and 
never  kill  off  a  man"?  There  was  altogether  too 
much  smoke  and  heat  in  the  controversy  for  one 
to  doubt  the  existence,  underneath  the  surface  of 
Miss  Speare's  fiction,  of  glowing  coals.  And  Miss 
Speare?  Well,  it  is  a  fact  that,  like  her  heroine 
in  Dancers^  she  has  an  exceptional  voice;  and  I 
understand  that  she  intends  to  cultivate  the  voice 
and  to  continue  as  a  writer,  both.  That  is  a  very 
difficult  programme  to  lay  out  for  one's  self,  but 
I  really  believe  her  capable  of  succeeding  in  both 
halves  of  the  programme. 

Another  distinctly  popular  novel.  The  Moon, 
Out  of  Reach,  by  Margaret  Pedler,  is  the  fruit  of 
a  well-developed  career  as  a  novelist.  The  Her- 
mit of  Far  End,  The  House  of  Dreams  Come 
True,  The  Lamp  of  Fate,  and  The  Splendid 
Folly  were  the  forerunners  of  this  immediate  and 
distinct  success.  Mrs.  Pedler  is  the  wife  of  a 
:  portsman  well  known  in  the  West  of  England, 
the  nearest  living  descendant  of  Sir  Francis 
Drake.  They  have  a  lovely  home  in  the  country 
and  Mrs.  Pedler,  besides  the  joys  of  her  writing, 
is  a  collector  of  old  furniture  and  china  and  a 
devotee  of  driving,  tennis  and  swimming.  It  is 
interesting  that  as  a  girl  she  studied  at  the  Royal 
Academy  of  Music  with  a  view  to  being  a  profes- 
sional singer.  Marriage  diverted  her  from  that, 
but  she  still  retains  her  interest  in  music;  and  it 
is  characteristic  of  such  novels  as  The  Splendid 
Folly  and  The  Moon  Out  of  Reach  that  a  lyric 

[256] 


AN  ARMFUL  OF  NOVELS 

appearing  in  the  book  embodies  the  theme  of  the 
story.  These  lyrics  of  Mrs.  Pedler's  have  mostly 
been  set  to  music. 

What  shall  I  say  about  Corra  Harris's  The 
Eyes  of  Love  except  that  it  offers  such  a  study  of 
marriage  as  only  Mrs.  Harris  puts  on  paper  ^ 
Shrewd  and  homely  wisdom,  sympathetic  and 
ironical  humour,  the  insight  and  the  fundamental 
experience, — above  all,  imagination  in  experience 
— which  made  their  first  deep  and  wide  impression 
with  the  publication  of  A  Circuit  Rider  s  Wife. 
I  open  The  Eyes  of  Love  at  random  and  come 
upon  such  a  passage  as  this,  and  then  I  don't  won- 
der that  men  as  well  as  women  read  Corra  Harris 
and  continue  to  read  her : 

"Few  women  are  ever  related  by  marriage  to 
the  minds  of  their  husbands.  These  minds  are 
foreign  countries  where  they  discover  themselves 
to  be  aliens,  speaking  another  smaller  language 
and  practically  incapable  of  mastering  the  man- 
ners and  customs  of  that  place.  This  is  sometimes 
the  man's  fault,  because  his  mind  is  not  a  fit  place 
for  a  nice  person  like  his  wife  to  dwell,  but  more 
frequently  it  is  the  wife's  fault,  who  is  not  willing 
to  associate  intimately  with  the  hardships  that 
inhabit  the  mind  of  a  busy  man,  who  has  no  time 
to  ornament  that  area  with  ideas  pertaining  to  the 
finer  things.  So  it  happens  that  both  of  them 
prefer  this  divorce,  the  man  because  the  woman 
gets  in  the  way  with  her  scruples  and  emotions 
when  he  is  about  to  do  business  without  reference 

[257] 


WHEN  WINTER  COMES  TO  MAIN  STREET 

to  either;  the  woman  because  it  is  easier  to  keep 
on  the  domestic  periphery  of  her  husband,  where 
she  thinks  she  knows  him  and  is  married  to  him 
because  she  knows  what  foods  he  likes,  and  the 
people  he  prefers  to  have  asked  to  dine  when  she 
entertains,  the  chair  that  fits  him,  the  large  pillow 
or  the  small  one  he  wants  for  his  tired  old  head  at 
night,  the  place  where  the  light  must  be  when  he 
reads  in  the  evening  rather  than  talk  to  her,  be- 
cause there  is  nothing  to  talk  about,  since  she  is 
only  the  wife  of  his  bosom  and  not  of  his  head." 


VI 


Phyllis  Bottome  is  just  as  interesting  as  her 
novels.  When  scarcely  more  than  a  child  with 
large,  delightful  eyes,  she  began  to  write,  and 
completed  at  the  age  of  seventeen  a  novel  which 
Andrew  Lang  advised  an  English  publisher  to 
accept.  Thereafter  she  wrote  regularly  and  with 
increasing  distinction.  Ill-health  drove  her  to 
Switzerland  where,  living  for  some  years,  she  met 
all  kinds  of  people  from  all  the  countries  of  Eu- 
rope and  America  as  well. 

It  is  interesting  that  her  father  was  an  Ameri- 
can, although  after  his  marriage  to  an  English- 
woman, he  settled  in  England.  Later  Mr.  Bot- 
tome came  to  America  and  for  six  years  during 
Phyllis  Bottome's  childhood  he  was  rector  of 
Grace  Church  at  Jamaica,  New  York.  Phyllis 
Bottome  is  the  wife  of  A.  E.  Forbes  Dennis,  who, 

[258] 


AN  ARMFUL  OF  NOVELS 

recovering  from  dangerous  wounds  in  the  war,  has 
been  serving  as  passport  officer  at  Vienna.  They 
were  married  in  1917.  Those  who  know  Phyllis 
Bottome  personally  say  that  the  striking  thing 
about  her  is  the  extent  of  her  acquaintance  with 
people  of  all  sorts  and  conditions  of  life  and  her 
ready  and  unfailing  sympathy  with  all  kinds  of 
people.  She  herself  says  that  she  "has  had  friends 
who  live  humdrum  and  simple  lives  and  friends 
whose  stories  would  bring  a  rush  of  doubt  to  the 
most  credulous  believer  in  fiction."  "My  friend- 
ships have  included  workmen,  bargees,  actresses, 
clergymen,  thieves,  scholars,  dancers,  soldiers, 
sailors  and  even  the  manager  of  a  bank.  It  would 
be  true  of  me  to  say  that  as  a  human  being  I  prefer 
life  to  art,  even  if  it  would  at  the  same  time  be 
damning  to  admit  that  I  know  much  more  about 
it.  I  have  no  preferences;  men,  women,  children, 
animals  and  nature  under  every  aspect  seem  to  me 
a  mere  choice  of  miracles.  I  have  not  perhaps 
many  illusions,  but  I  have  got  hold  of  one  or  two 
certainties.  I  believe  in  life  and  I  know  that  it  is 
very  hard." 

The  hardness  of  life,  its  uproar,  its  agony,  its 
magnificence  and  its  duty,  is  the  theme  of  Phyllis 
Bottome's  latest  and  finest  novel.  When  it  was 
published,  because  it  was  so  different  from  Phyllis 
Bottome's  earlier  work,  I  tried  to  draw  attention 
to  it  by  a  letter  in  which  I  said : 

"I  don't  know  whether  you  read  J.  C.  Snaith's 
The  Sailor.     People  said  Snaith  got  his  sugges- 

[259] 


WHEN  WINTER  COMES  TO  MAIN  STREET 

tion  from  the  life  of  John  Masefield.  The 
Sailor  sold  many  thousands  and  people  recall  the 
book  today,  years  afterward.  But,  as  an  ex- 
sailor  and  a  few  other  things,  I  never  found 
Snaith's  'Enry  'Arper  half  so  convincing  as  Jim 
Barton  in  Phyllis  Bottome's  new  novel,  The  King- 
fisher. 

"Jim,  a  boy  of  the  slums,  reaching  toward  'that 
broken  image  of  the  mind  of  God — human  love,' 
goes  pretty  deeply  into  me.  Since  reading  those 
last  words  of  the  book — 'Beauty  touched  him.  It 
was  as  if  he  saw,  with  a  flash  of  jewelled  wings, 
a  Kingfisher  fly  home' — I  keep  going  back  and  re- 
reading bits.  .  .  . 

"Won't  you  tackle  The  Kingfisher?  If  you'll 
read  to  the  bottom  of  page  51,  I'll  take  a  chance 
beyond  that.  Read  that  far  and  then,  if  you  stop 
there,  I've  no  word  to  say." 

Although  this  letter  called  for  no  special  reply, 
I  received  dozens  of  replies  promising  to  read  the 
book  and  then  enthusiastic  comments  after  hav- 
ing read  the  book.  I  do  not  consider  The  King- 
fisher the  greatest  book  Phyllis  Bottome  will 
write,  but  it  marks  an  important  advance  in  her 
work  and  it  is  a  novel  whose  positive  merits  will 
last;  it  will  be  as  moving  and  as  significant  ten 
years  from  now  as  it  is  today. 

vu 

I  come  to  a  group  of  novels  of  which  the  chief 
aim  of  all  except  two  is  entertainment.      The 

[260] 


AN  ARMFUL  OF  NOVELS 

Return  of  Alfred^  by  the  anonymous  author  of 
Patricia  Brent,  Spinster,  is  the  diverting  narra- 
tive of  a  man  who  found  himself  in  another  man's 
shoes.  What  made  it  particularly  difficult  was 
that  the  other  man  had  been  a  very  bad  egg,  in- 
deed. And  there  was,  as  might  have  been  feared 
(or  anticipated),  a  girl  to  complicate  matters 
tremendously. 

E.  F.  Benson's  Feter  is  the  story  of  a  young 
man  who  made  a  point  of  being  different,  of  keep- 
ing his  aloofness  and  paying  just  the  amount  of 
charm  and  gaiety  required  for  the  dinners  and 
opera  seats  which  London  hostesses  so  gladly 
proffered.  Then  he  married  Silvia,  not  for  her 
money  exactly,  but  he  certainly  would  not  have 
asked  her  if  she  hadn't  had  money.  No  wonder 
E.  F.  Benson  has  a  liberal  and  expectant  audi- 
ence !  In  Peter  he  shows  an  exquisite  under- 
standing of  the  quality  of  the  love  between  Peter 
and  his  boyish  young  wife. 

A.  A.  Milne  is  another  name  to  conjure  with 
among  those  who  love  humour  and  charm,  gent]e- 
ness  and  a  quiet  shafting  of  the  human  depths. 
There  is  his  novel,  Mr.  Pirn.  Old  Mr.  Pim,  in 
his  gentle  way,  shuffled  into  the  Mardens'  charm- 
ing household.  Mr.  Pim  said  a  few  words  and 
went  absentmindedly  away, — leaving  Mr.  Mar- 
den  with  the  devastating  knowledge  that  his  wife 
was  no  wife,  that  her  first  husband,  instead  of 
lying  quietly  in  his  grave  in  Australia,  had  just 
landed  in  England.     In  short,  the  Mardens  had 

[261] 


WHEN  WINTER  COMES  TO  MAIN  STREET 

been  living  in  sin  for  five  years  I  Then  Mr.  Pirn 
came  back  for  his  forgotten  hat  and  the  Marden 
household  was  again  revolutionised. 

Beauty  for  Ashes,  by  Joan  Sutherland,  is  a 
story  with  a  more  serious  theme.  It  really  raises 
the  question  whether  a  man  who  has  wrongly 
been  named  as  co-respondent  is  in  honour  bound 
to  marry  the  defendant.  The  affair  of  Lady 
Madge  with  Lord  Desmond  was  an  entirely  inno- 
cent one,  despite  what  London  said.  Lady 
Madge's  husband,  wrought  upon  by  shame  and 
anger,  began  his  action  for  divorce;  and  Desmond 
found  himself  not  merely  face  to  face  with  dis- 
honour but  bound  by  conventional  honour  for 
life  to  a  girl  with  whom  he  had  simply  been 
friendly. 

William  Rose  Benet  had  been  known  chiefly  as 
a  poet  until  the  publication  of  his  first  novel, 
The  First  Person  Singular.  The  scene  of  The 
First  Person  Singular  shifts  between  the  kinetic 
panorama  of  modern  New  York  and  the  some- 
what stultifying  quietude  of  a  small  Pennsyl- 
vania town.  A  mysterious  Mrs.  Ventress  is  the 
centre  of  its  rapidly  unfolding  series  of  peculiar 
situations.  Mrs.  Ventress  is  a  puzzle  to  the 
townspeople.  They  believe  odd  things  about  her. 
The  particular  family  in  Tupton  with  which  she 
comes  in  contact  is  an  eccentric  one.  The  father 
is  a  recluse — for  reasons.  His  adopted  daughter, 
Bessie  Gedney,  is  an  odd  character  among  young 
girls  in  fiction.  Dr.  Gedney's  real  daughter  had 
[262] 


AN  ARMFUL  OF  NOVELS 

disappeared  years  before.  Why*?  What  has  be- 
come of  her'?    This  complicates  the  mystery. 

The  First  Person  Singular  is  a  light  novel, 
avowedly  without  the  heavy  "significance"  and 
desperately  drab  realism  of  many  modern  novels. 
And  yet  it  flashes  with  tragedy  and  implicates 
grim  spiritual  struggle  without  tearing  any  pas- 
sion to  tatters.  The  author's  touch  is  light,  the 
variety  of  his  characters  furnish  him  much  diver- 
sion. The  amusing  side  of  each  situation  does 
not  escape  him.  His  style  has  a  certain  efferves- 
cent quality,  but,  for  all  that,  the  tragic  develop- 
ments of  the  story  are  not  shirked. 

Another  treatment  of  a  problem  of  marriage,  a 
treatment  sympathetic  but  robust,  is  found  in  the 
new  novel  of  F.  E.  Mills  Young,  The  Stronger 
Influence.  Like  Miss  Mills  Young's  earlier 
novels,  hnprudence  and  The  AUnonds  of  Life.,  the 
scene  of  The  Stronger  Influence  is  British  Africa. 
The  story  is  of  the  choice  confronting  a  girl  upon 
whom  two  men  have  a  vital  claim. 

To  be  somebody  is  more  ethical  than  to  serve 
somebody.  The  individual  has  not  only  a  right 
but  an  obligation  to  sacrifice  family  entangle- 
ments in  the  cause  of  a  necessary  personal  inde- 
pendence. This  is  the  attitude  expressed  in 
Richard  Blaker's  novel,  The  Voice  in  the  Wilder- 
ness. The  story  centres  around  the  figure  of 
Charles  Petrie,  popular  playwright  in  London  but 
known  in  Pelchester  merely  as  a  shabby  fellow 
and  to  his  family  a  singularly  sarcastic  and  an- 

[263] 


WHEN  WINTER  COMES  TO  MAIN  STREET 

noying  father.  Sarcasm  was  Petrie's  one  defence 
against  the  limp  weight  that  was  Mrs.  Petrie. 
His  children  would  have  been  astonished  to  hear 
him  called  a  charming  man  of  the  world,  yet  he 
was.  It  is  probable  that  he  never  would  have 
come  out  into  the  open  to  combat  if  he  hadn't 
been  moved  constantly  to  interfere  and  save  his 
daughter  Cynthia  from  offering  herself  as  a  will- 
ing sacrifice  to  her  mother.  Richard  Blaker  is  new 
to  America,  a  novelist  of  acutely  pointed  char- 
acterisations and  careful  atmosphere. 


vni 

Nene^  the  work  of  an  unknown  French  school 
teacher,  a  novel  distinguished  in  France  by  the 
award  of  the  Goncourt  Prize  as  the  most  distin- 
guished French  novel  of  the  year  1920,  had  sold 
at  this  writing  400,000  copies  in  France.  Three 
months  after  publication,  it  had  sold  in  this  coun- 
^  try  less  than  3,000  copies. 

j>         I  am  glad  to  say  that  it  was  sufficient  to  draw 
yj     to  the  attention  of  Americans  this  deplorable  dis- 
'  ^      crepancy  to  arouse  interest  in  the  novel.     People 
N'      of  so  divergent  tastes  as  William  Lyon  Phelps, 
;        Corra  Harris,   Ralph  Connor,   Walter  Prichard 
Eaton,    Mary    Johnston,    Dorothy    Speare    and 
Richard  LeGallienne  have  been  at  pains  to  ex- 
press the  feeling  to  which  Nene  has  stirred  them. 
I  have  not  space  to  quote  them  all,  and  so  select 

[264] 


AN  ARMFUL  OF  NOVELS 

as    typical    the    comment    of   Walter    Prichard 
Eaton : 

"I  read  TSIene  with  great  interest,  especially  be- 
cause of  its  relation  to  Maria  Chapdelaine.  It 
seems  to  me  the  two  books  came  out  most  happily 
together.  Maria  Chapdelaine  gives  us  the  French 
peasant  in  the  new  world,  touched  with  the 
pioneer  spirit,  and  though  close  to  the  soil  in  con- 
stant battle  with  nature,  somehow  always  master 
of  his  fate.  Nene  gives  us  this  same  racial  stock, 
again  close  to  the  soil,  but  an  old-world  soil  its 
fathers  worked,  and  the  peasant  here  seems  ringed 
around  with  those  old  ghosts,  their  prejudices  and 
their  passions.  I  have  seldom  read  any  book 
which  seemed  to  me  so  unerringly  to  capture  the 
enveloping  atmosphere  of  place  and  tradition,  as 
it  conditions  the  lives  of  people,  and  yet  to  do  it 
so  (apparently)  artlessly.  This  struck  me  so 
forcibly  that  it  was  not  till  later  I  began  to  realise 
with  a  sigh — if  one  himself  is  a  writer,  a  sigh  of 
envy — that  Nine  has  a  directness,  a  simplicity, 
a  principle  of  internal  growth  or  dramatic  life 
of  its  own,  which,  alas  I  most  of  us  are  incapable 
of  attaining." 

The  author  of  Carnival,  Sinister  Street, 
Flasher  s  Mead;  of  those  highly  comedic  novels. 
Poor  Relations  and  Rich  Relatives;  of  other  and 
still  more  diverse  fiction,  Compton  Mackenzie, 
has  turned  to  a  new  task.  His  fine  novel.  The 
Altar  Steps,  concerns  itself  with  a  young  priest 
of  the  Church  of  England.    We  live  in  the  Eng- 

[265] 


WHEN  WINTER  COMES  TO  MAIN  STREET 

land  of  Lytton  Strachey's  Queen  Victoria — the 
England  of  1880  to  the  close  of  the  Boer  War 
— as  we  follow  Mark  Lidderdale  from  boyhood 
to  his  ordination.  The  Altar  Steps ^  it  is  known, 
will  be  followed  by  a  novel  probably  to  be  called 
The  Parson's  Progress.  Evidently  Mr.  Macken- 
zie is  bent  upon  a  fictional  study  of  the  whole 
problem  of  the  Church  of  England  in  relation  to 
our  times,  and  particularly  the  position  of  the 
Catholic  party  in  the  Church. 

"Simon  Pure,"  who  writes  the  monthly  letter 
from  London  appearing  in  The  Bookman  (and 
whose  identity  is  a  well-known  secret!)  thus  de- 
scribes, in  The  Bookman  for  September,  1922,  a 
visit  to  Mr.  Mackenzie: 

"I  have  recently  seen  the  author  of  The  Altar 
Steps  upon  his  native  heath.  The  Altar  Steps  is 
the  latest  work  of  Compton  Mackenzie,  and  it  has 
done  something  to  rehabilitate  him  with  the 
critics.  The  press  has  been  less  fiercely  adverse 
than  usual  to  the  author.  He  is  supposed  to  have 
come  back  to  the  fold  of  the  'serious'  writers,  and 
so  the  fatted  calf  has  been  slain  for  him.  We 
shall  see.  My  own  impression  is  that  Mackenzie 
is  a  humorous  writer,  and  that  the  wiseacres  who 
want  the  novel  to  be  'serious'  are  barking  up  the 
wrong  tree.  At  any  rate,  there  the  book  is,  and 
it  is  admitted  to  be  a  good  book  by  all  who  have 
been  condemning  Mackenzie  as  a  trifler;  and 
Mackenzie  is  going  on  with  his  sequel  to  it  in  the 
pleasant  land  of  Italy.    I  did  not  see  him  in  Italy, 

[266] 


AN  ARMFUL  OF  NOVELS 

but  in  Herm,  one  of  the  minor  Channel  Islands. 
It  took  me  a  night  to  reach  the  place — a  night  of 
fog  and  fog-signals — a  night  of  mystery,  with  the 
moon  full  and  the  water  shrouded — and  morning 
found  the  fog  abruptly  lifted,  and  the  islands  be- 
fore our  eyes.  They  glittered  under  a  brilliant 
sun.  There  came  hurried  disembarking,  a  trans- 
ference (for  me,  and  after  breakfast)  to  a  small 
boat  called,  by  the  owner's  pleasantry,  'Watch 
Me'  (Compton  Mackenzie),  and  then  a  fine  sail 
(per  motor)  to  Herm.  I  said  to  the  skipper  that 
I  supposed  there  must  be  many  dangerous  sub- 
merged rocks.  'My  dear  fellow!'  exclaimed  the 
skipper,  driven  to  familiarity  by  my  naivete.  And 
with  that  we  reached  the  island.  Upon  the  end 
of  a  pier  stood  a  tall  figure,  solitary.  'My  host!' 
thought  I.  Not  so.  Merely  an  advance  guard: 
his  engineer.  We  greeted — my  reception  being 
that  of  some  foreign  potentate — and  I  was  led  up 
a  fine  winding  road  that  made  me  think  of  Samoa 
and  Vailima  and  all  the  beauties  of  the  South 
Seas.  Upon  the  road  came  another  figure — this 
time  a  young  man  who  made  a  friend  of  me  at  a 
glance.  He  now  took  me  in  hand.  Together  we 
made  the  rest  of  the  journey  along  this  beautiful 
road,  and  to  the  cottage  of  residence.  I  entered. 
There  was  a  scramble.  At  last  I  met  my  host, 
who  leapt  from  bed  to  welcome  me  I 

"From  that  moment  my  holiday  was  delight- 
ful. The  island  is  really  magnificent.  Short  of 
a  stream,  it  has  everything  one  could  wish  for  in 

[267] 


WHEN  WINTER  COMES  TO  MAIN  STREET 

such  a  place.  It  has  cliffs,  a  wood,  a  common, 
fields  under  cultivation,  fields  used  as  pasture, 
caves,  shell  beaches,  several  empty  cottages.  Its 
bird  life  is  wealthy  in  cuckoos  and  other  magic- 
bringers;  its  flowers  have  extraordinary  interest; 
dogs  and  cattle  and  horses  give  domestic  life,  and 
a  boat  or  two  may  be  used  for  excursions  to 
Jethou,  a  smaller  island  near  by.  And  Mac- 
kenzie has  this  ideal  place  to  live  in  for  as  much 
of  the  year  as  he  likes.  None  may  gather  there 
without  his  permission.  He  is  the  lord  of  the 
manor,  and  his  boundaries  are  the  sea  and  the  sky. 
We  walked  about  the  islands,  and  saw  their 
beauties,  accompanied  by  a  big  dog — a  Great 
Dane — which  coursed  rabbits  and  lay  like  a  dead 
fish  in  the  bottom  of  a  small  boat.  And  as  each 
marvel  of  the  little  paradise  presented  itself,  I 
became  more  and  more  filled  with  that  wicked 
thing,  envy.  But  I  believe  envy  does  not  make 
much  progress  when  the  owner  of  the  desired  ob- 
ject so  evidently  appreciates  it  with  more  gusto 
even  than  the  envious  one.  Reason  is  against 
envy  in  such  a  case.  To  have  said,  'He  doesn't 
appreciate  it'  would  have  been  a  lie  so  manifest 
that  it  did  not  even  occur  to  me.  He  does.  That 
is  the  secret  of  Mackenzie's  personal  ability  to 
charm.  He  is  filled  with  vitality,  but  he  is  also 
filled  with  the  power  to  take  extreme  delight  in 
the  delight  of  others  and  to  better  it.  Moreover, 
he  gives  one  the  impression  of  understanding 
islands.     Herm  has  been  in  his  possession   for 

[268] 


AN  ARMFUL  OF  NOVELS 

something  more  than  a  year,  and  he  has  lived 
there  continuously  all  that  time  (except  for  two  or 
three  visits  to  London,  of  short  duration).  It  has 
been  in  all  his  thoughts.  He  has  seen  it  as  a 
whole.  He  knows  it  from  end  to  end,  its  rocks, 
its  birds,  its  trees  and  flowers  and  paths.  What 
wonder  that  his  health  is  magnificent,  his  spirits 
high!  What  wonder  the  critics  have  seen  fit  to 
praise  The  Altar  Steps  as  they  have  not  praised 
anything  of  Mackenzie's  for  years^  If  they  had 
seen  Herm,  they  could  have  done  nothing  at  all 
but  praise  without  reserve." 


[269] 


Chapter  XVII 

THE  HETEROGENEOUS  MAGIC  OF 
MAUGHAM 


NOW,  I  don't  know  where  to  begin.  Prob- 
ably I  shall  not  know  where  to  leave  off, 
either.  That  is  my  usual  misfortune,  to  write  a 
chapter  at  both  ends.  It  is  a  fatal  thing,  like  the 
doubly-consuming  candle.  Perhaps  I  might  start 
with  the  sapience  of  Hector  MacOuarrie,  author 
of  Tahiti  Days.  I  am  tempted  to,  because  so 
many  people  think  of  W.  Somerset  Maugham  as 
the  author  of  The  Moon  and  Sixpence.  The  day 
will  come,  however,  when  people  will  think  of 
him  as  the  man  who  wrote  Of  Human  Bondage. 
This  novel  does  not  need  praise.  All  it  needs, 
like  the  grand  work  it  is,  is  attention;  and  that 
it  increasingly  gets. 

•  • 

11 

Theodore  Dreiser  reviewed  Of  Human  Bond- 
age for  the  New  Republic.  I  reprint  part  of 
what  he  said : 

[270] 


W.  SOMERSET  MAUGHAM 


[271] 


HETEROGENEOUS  MAGIC  OF  MAUGHAM 

"Sometimes  in  retrospect  of  a  great  book  the 
mind  falters,  confused  by  the  multitude  and  yet 
the  harmony  of  the  detail,  the  strangeness  of  the 
frettings,  the  brooding,  musing  intelligence  that 
has  foreseen,  loved,  created,  elaborated,  perfected, 
until,  in  the  middle  ground  which  we  call  life, 
somewhere  between  nothing  and  nothing,  hangs 
the  perfect  thing  which  we  love  and  cannot  un- 
derstand, but  which  we  are  compelled  to  confess 
a  work  of  art.  It  is  at  once  something  and  noth- 
ing, a  dream  of  happy  memory,  a  song,  a  bene- 
diction. In  viewing  it  one  finds  nothing  to  criti- 
cise or  to  regret.  The  thing  sings,  it  has  colour. 
It  has  rapture.  You  wonder  at  the  loving,  patient 
care  which  has  evolved  it. 

"Here  is  a  novel  or  biography  or  autobiography 
or  social  transcript  of  the  utmost  importance.  To 
begin  with,  it  is  unmoral,  as  a  novel  of  this  kind 
must  necessarily  be.  The  hero  is  born  with  a  club 
foot,  and  in  consequence,  and  because  of  a  tem- 
perament delicately  attuned  to  the  miseries  of  life, 
suffers  all  the  pains,  recessions,  and  involute  self 
tortures  which  only  those  who  have  striven  handi- 
capped by  what  they  have  considered  a  blighting 
defect  can  understand.  He  is  a  youth,  therefore, 
with  an  intense  craving  for  sympathy  and  under- 
standing. He  must  have  it.  The  thought  of  his 
lack,  and  the  part  which  his  disability  plays  in  it 
soon  becomes  an  obsession.  He  is  tortured, 
miserable. 

"Curiously  the  story  rises  to  no  spired  climax. 

[273] 


WHEN  WINTER  COMES  TO  MAIN  STREET 

To  some  it  has  apparently  appealed  as  a  drab,  un- 
relieved narrative.  To  me  at  least  it  is  a  gor- 
geous weave,  as  interesting  and  valuable  at  the 
beginning  as  at  the  end.  There  is  material  in  its 
three  hundred  thousand  or  more  words  for  many 
novels  and  indeed  several  philosophies,  and  even 
a  religion  or  stoic  hope.  There  are  a  series  of 
women,  of  course — drab,  pathetic,  enticing  as  the 
case  may  be, — who  lead  him  through  the  mazes 
of  sentiment,  sex,  love,  pity,  passion;  a  wonder- 
ful series  of  portraits  and  of  incidents.  There 
are  a  series  of  men  friends  of  a  peculiarly  inclu- 
sive range  of  intellectuality  and  taste,  who  lead 
him,  or  whom  he  leads,  through  all  the  in- 
tricacies of  art,  philosophy,  criticism,  humour. 
And  lastly  comes  life  itself,  the  great  land  and 
sea  of  people,  England,  Germany,  France,  bat- 
tering, corroding,  illuminating,  a  Goyaesque 
world. 

"Naturally  I  asked  myself  how  such  a  book 
would  be  received  in  America,  in  England.  In 
the  latter  country  I  was  sure,  with  its  traditions 
and  the  Athenaeum  and  the  Saturday  Review,  it 
would  be  adequately  appreciated.  Imagine  my 
surprise  to  find  that  the  English  reviews  were  al- 
most uniformly  contemptuous  and  critical  on 
moral  and  social  grounds.  The  hero  was  a  weak- 
ling, not  for  a  moment  to  be  tolerated  by  sound, 
right-thinking  men.  On  the  other  hand,  in  Amer- 
ica the  reviewers  for  the  most  part  have  seen  its 
true  merits  and  stated  them.     Need  I  say,  how- 

[274] 


HETEROGENEOUS  MAGIC  OF  MAUGHAM 

ever,  that  the  New  York  World  finds  it  'the  senti- 
mental servitude  of  a  poor  fool,'  or  that  the  Phila- 
delphia Press  sees  fit  to  dub  it  'futile  Philip,'  or 
that  the  Outlook  feels  that  'the  author  might  have 
made  his  book  true  without  making  it  so  fre- 
quently distasteful' ;  or  that  the  Dial  cries  'a  most 
depressing  impression  of  the  futility  of  life'  ^ 

"Despite  these  dissonant  voices  it  is  still  a  book 
of  the  utmost  import,  and  has  so  been  received. 
Compact  of  the  experiences,  the  dreams,  the 
hopes,  the  fears,  the  disillusionments,  the  rup- 
tures, and  the  philosophising  of  a  strangely 
starved  soul,  it  is  a  beacon  light  by  which  the 
wanderer  may  be  guided.  Nothing  is  left  out; 
the  author  writes  as  though  it  were  a  labour  of 
love.  It  bears  the  imprint  of  an  eager,  almost 
consuming  desire  to  say  truly  what  is  in  his  heart. 

"Personally,  I  found  myself  aching  with  pain 
when,  yearning  for  s}Tnpathy,  Philip  begs  the 
wretched  Mildred,  never  his  mistress  but  on  his 
level,  to  no  more  than  tolerate  him.  He  finally 
humiliates  himself  to  the  extent  of  exclaiming, 
'You  don't  know  what  it  means  to  be  a  cripple!' 
The  pathos  of  it  plumbs  the  depths.  The  death 
of  Fannie  Price,  of  the  sixteen-year-old  mother 
in  the  slum,  of  Cronshaw,  and  the  rambling 
agonies  of  old  Ducroz  and  of  Philip  himself,  are 
perfect  in  their  appeal. 

"There  are  many  other  and  all  equally  brilliant 
pictures.  No  one  short  of  a  genius  could  rout  the 
philosophers  from  their  lairs  and  label  them  as 

[275] 


WHEN  WINTER  COMES  TO  MAIN  STREET 

individuals  'tempering  life  with  rules  agreeable 
to  themselves'  or  could  follow  Mildred  Rogers, 
waitress  of  the  London  ABC  restaurant,  through 
all  the  shabby  windings  of  her  tawdry  soul.  No 
other  than  a  genius  endowed  with  an  immense 
capacity  for  understanding  and  pity  could  have 
sympathised  with  Fannie  Price,  with  her  futile 
and  self-destructive  art  dreams ;  or  old  Cronshaw, 
the  wastrel  of  poetry  and  philosophy;  or  Mons. 
Ducroz,  the  worn-out  revolutionary;  or  Thorne 
Athelny,  the  caged  grandee  of  Spain ;  or  Leonard 
Upjohn,  airy  master  of  the  art  of  self-advance- 
ment ;  or  Dr.  South,  the  vicar  of  Blackstable,  and 
his  wife — these  are  masterpieces.  They  are  mar- 
vellous portraits ;  they  are  as  smooth  as  a  Vermeer, 
as  definite  as  a  Hals;  as  brooding  and  moving  as 
a  Rembrandt.  The  study  of  Carey  himself,  while 
one  sees  him  more  as  a  medium  through  which 
the  others  express  themselves,  still  registers  photo- 
graphically at  times.  He  is  by  no  means  a  brood- 
ing voice  but  a  definite,  active,  vigorous  character. 
"If  the  book  can  be  said  to  have  a  fault  it  will 
lie  for  some  in  its  length,  300,000  words,  or  for 
others  in  the  peculiar  reticence  with  which  the 
last  love  affair  in  the  story  is  handled.  Until  the 
coming  of  Sallie  Athelny  all  has  been  described 
with  the  utmost  frankness.  No  situation,  how- 
ever crude  or  embarrassing,  has  been  shirked.  In 
the  matter  of  the  process  by  which  he  arrived  at 
the  intimacy  which  resulted  in  her  becoming  preg- 
nant not  a  word  is  said.    All  at  once,  by  a  slight 

[276] 


HETEROGENEOUS  MAGIC  OF  MAUGHAM 

frown  which  she  subsequently  explains,  the  truth 
is  forced  upon  you  that  there  has  been  a  series  of 
intimacies  which  have  not  been  accounted  for. 
After  Mildred  Rogers  and  his  relationship  with 
Norah  Nesbit  it  strikes  one  as  strange.  .  .  . 

"One  feels  as  though  one  were  sitting  before  a 
splendid  Shiraz  or  Daghestan  of  priceless  texture 
and  intricate  weave,  admiring,  feeling,  respond- 
ing sensually  to  its  colours  and  tones.  Mr. 
Maugham  .  .  .  has  suffered  for  the  joy  of  the 
many  who  are  to  read  after  him.  By  no  willing 
of  his  own  he  has  been  compelled  to  take  life  by 
the  hand  and  go  down  where  there  has  been  little 
save  sorrow  and  degradation.  The  cup  of  gall 
and  wormwood  has  obviously  been  lifted  to  his 
lips  and  to  the  last  drop  he  has  been  compelled 
to  drink  it.  Because  of  this,  we  are  enabled  to 
see  the  rug,  woven  of  the  tortures  and  delights 
of  a  life.  We  may  actually  walk  and  talk  with 
one  whose  hands  and  feet  have  been  pierced  with 
nails." 

iii 

I  turn,  for  a  different  example  of  the  hetero- 
geneous magic  of  Maugham,  including  his  ability 
to  create  and  sustain  a  mood  in  his  readers,  to 
the  words  of  Mr.  MacQuarrie,  who  writes : 

"It  was  Tahiti.  With  a  profound  trust  in  my 
discretion,  or  perhaps  an  utter  ignorance  of  the 
homely  fact  that  people  have  their  feelings,  a 
London  friend  sent  us  a  copy  of  The  Moon  and 


WHEN  WINTER  COMES  TO  MAIN  STREET 

Sixpence.  This  friend,  actually  a  beautiful,  well 
set  up  woman  of  the  intelligent  class  in  England 
(which  is  more  often  than  not  the  upper  fringes 
or  spray  of  the  bourgeoisie)^  wrote:  'You  will  be 
interested  in  this  book,  since  quite  the  most  charm- 
ing portion  of  it  deals  with  your  remote  island  of 
Tahiti.     I  met  the  author  last  night  at  Lady 

B 's.     I  think  the  landlady  at  the  end,  Mrs. 

Johnson,  is  a  perfect  darling.' 

"Knowing  Somerset  Maugham  as  a  dramatist, 
the  author  of  that  kind  of  play  which  never  bored 
one,  but  rather  sent  one  home  suffused  with  pleas- 
antness, I  opened  the  book  with  happy  anticipa- 
tion. Therefore — and  the  title  of  the  book.  The 
Moon  and  Sixpence^  gave  a  jolly  calming  reac- 
tion— I  was  surprised  and  frankly  annoyed  when 
I  found  myself  compelled  to  follow  the  fortunes 
of  a  large  red-headed  man  with  mighty  sex  ap- 
peal, who  barged  his  way  through  female  tears 
to  a  final  goal  which  seemed  to  be  a  spiritual 
achievement,  and  a  nasty  death  in  a  native  fare. 
I  was  alarmed ;  here  was  a  man  writing  something 
enormously  strong,  when  I  had  been  accustomed 
to  associate  him  with  charming  London  nights — 
the  theatre,  perfect  acting,  no  middle  class  prob- 
lems, a  dropping  of  one's  women  folks  at  their 
doors  and  a  return  to  White's  and  whiskey  and  a 
soda.  And  furthermore,  in  this  book  of  his,  he 
had  picked  up  Lavina,  the  famous  landlady  of 
the  Tiare  Hotel,  the  uncrowned  queen  of  Tahiti, 
and  with  a  few  strokes  of  his  pen,  had  dissected 

[278] 


HETEROGENEOUS  MAGIC  OF  MAUGHAM 

her,  and  exposed  her  to  the  world  as  she  was. 
Here  I  must  quote : 

"  'Tall  and  extremely  stout,  she  would  have 
been  an  imposing  presence  if  the  great  good  nature 
of  her  face  had  not  made  it  impossible  for  her  to 
express  anything  but  kindliness.  Her  arms  were 
like  legs  of  mutton,  her  breasts  like  giant  cab- 
bages; her  face,  broad  and  fleshy,  gave  you  an 
impression  of  almost  indecent  nakedness  and  vast 
chin  succeeded  vast  chin.' 

"This  may  seem  a  small  matter  in  a  great 
world.  Tahiti  is  a  small  world,  and  this  became 
a  great  matter.  I  read  the  book  twice,  decided 
that  Somerset  Maugham  could  no  longer  be  re- 
garded as  a  pleasant  liqueur,  but  rather  as  the 
joint  of  a  meal  requiring  steady  digestion,  and 
suppressed  The  Moon  and  Sixpence  on  Tahiti. 
The  temptation  to  lend  it  to  a  kindred  spirit  was 
almost  unbearable,  but  the  thought  of  Lavina 
hearing  of  the  above  description  of  her  person 
frightened  me  and  I  resisted.  For  kindred  souls, 
on  Tahiti  as  elsewhere,  have  their  own  kindred 
souls,  and  slowly  but  surely  the  fact  that  a  writer 
had  described  her  arms  as  legs  of  mutton  (per- 
fect!) and  her  breasts  as  huge  cabbages  (even 
better!)  would  have  oozed  its  way  to  Lavina, 
sending  her  to  bed  for  six  days,  with  gloom  spread 
over  Tahiti  and  no  cocktails. 

"All  of  which  is  a  trifle  by  the  way.  Yet  in 
writing  of  Somerset  Maugham  one  must  gaze 
along  all  lines  of  vision.     And  it  seemed  to  me 

[279] 


WHEN  WINTER  COMES  TO  MAIN  STREET 

that  Tahiti  in  general,  and  Papeete  in  particular 
should  supply  a  clear  one;  for  here,  certainly,  in 
the  days  when  Maugham  visited  the  island  a  man 
could  be  mentally  dead,  spiritually  naked  and 
physically  unashamed.  I  therefore  sought  Lavina 
one  afternoon  as  she  sat  clothed  as  with  a  garment 
by  the  small  side  verandah  of  the  Tiare  Hotel. 
(Lavina  was  huge;  the  verandah  was  a  small 
verandah  as  verandahs  go;  there  was  just  room 
for  me  and  a  bottle  of  rum.) 

"  'Lavina,'  I  remarked;  'many  persons  who 
write  come  to  Tahiti.' 

"  Tt  is  true,'  she  admitted,  'but  not  as  the 
heavy  rain,  rather  as  the  few  drops  at  the  end.' 

"  'Do  you  like  them'?'  I  enquired. 

"One  makes  that  kind  of  remark  on  Tahiti. 
The  climate  demands  such,  since  the  answer  can 
be  almost  anything,  a  meandering  spreading-of- 
weight  kind  of  answer. 

"  'These  are  good  men,'  said  Lavina  steadily, 
wandering  off  into  the  old  and  possibly  untrue 
story  of  a  lady  called  Beatrice  Grimshaw  and  her 
dilemma  on  a  schooner  in  mid-Pacific,  when  the 
captain,  a  gentle  ancient,  thinking  that  the  dark 
women  were  having  it  all  their  own  way,  offered 
to  embrace  Miss  Grimshaw,  finding  in  return  a 
gun  pointing  at  his  middle,  filling  him  with 
quaint  surprise  that  anyone  could  possibly  offer 
violence  in  defence  of  a  soul  in  so  delightful  a 
climate. 

"After   which    and    a    rum    cocktail,    I    said: 

[280] 


HETEROGENEOUS  MAGIC  OF  MAUGHAM 

'Lavina,  did  you  see  much  of  M'sieur  Somerset 
Maugham  when  he  was  here*?' 

"  'It  is  the  man  who  writes?'  she  inquired 
lazily. 

"  'It  is,'  I  returned. 

"  'It  is  the  beau  gargon-ta-ta^  neneenha  roa?^ 
she  suggested. 

"  'Probably  not,'  I  said;  'I  suspect  you  are 
thinking,  as  usual,  of  Rupert  Brooke.  M'sieur 
Maugham  may  be  regarded  as  heau^  but  he  is  not 
an  elderly  waiter  of  forty-seven,  therefore  we  may 
not  call  him  a  g  arc  on.'' 

"  'It  is,'  Lavina  admitted;  'that  I  am  thinking 
of  M'sieur  Rupert,  he  is  the  beau  gargon.'' 

"  'But,'  I  said,  'I  want  to  know  what  you 
thought  of  M'sieur  Somerset  Maugham*?' 

"Once  started  on  Rupert  Brooke,  and  Lavina 
would  go  on  for  the  afternoon! 

"  'I  respect  M'sieur  Morn,'  said  Lavina. 

"'Oh I'  thought  I;  'if  she  respects  him,  then 
I'm  not  going  to  get  much.' 

"  'His  French  is  not  mixed,'  she  continued,  re- 
ferring to  Maugham's  Parisian  accent;  'I  speak 
much  with  him,  and  he  listen,  with  but  a  small 
question  here,  and  one  there.  It  is  the  pure 
French  from  Paris,  as  M'sieur  le  Governeur  speak, 
who  is  the  pig.  But  when  he  speak  much,  then 
it  is  like  the  coral  which  breaks.' 

"Lavina  now  wandered  off  permanently;  it  was 
impossible  to  bring  her  back.  Her  image  of  the 
brittle  coral  branches  was  a  mild  personality  di- 

[281] 


WHEN  WINTER  COMES  TO  MAIN  STREET 

rected  at  Maugham's  stutter,  which  seldom  es- 
capes the  most  sophisticated  observer.  For  those 
who  interview  him  always  find  well  cut  suitings, 
clean  collars  and  the  stutter,  and  very  little  else 
that  they  can  lay  hold  of  with  any  degree  of 
honest)^  Which  only  goes  to  prove  my  own 
opinion  that  Maugham,  as  an  observer,  refuses 
to  have  his  own  vision  clogged  by  prying  eyes  at 
himself. 

"I  expect  that  if  my  French  had  been  better, 
I  might  have  got  some  information  about 
Maugham  in  Tahiti  from  the  bland  and  badly 
built  French  officials  who  lurk  in  the  official  club 
near  the  Pomare  Palace.  I  was  reduced,  in  my 
rather  casual  investigation,  to  questioning  natives 
and  schooner  captains.  Once  I  felt  confident  of 
gaining  a  picture.  I  asked  Titi  of  Taunoa.  (Titi 
is  the  lady  who  figures  a  trifle  disgracefully  in 
Gauguin's  Noanoa,  the  woman  he  found  boring 
after  a  few  weeks,  her  French  blood  being  insuffi- 
ciently exotic  to  his  spirit.) 

"Said  Titi :  'M'sieur  Morn*?  Yes,  him  I  know; 
he  speak  good  French,  and  take  the  door  down 
from  the  fare  on  which  is  the  picture  done  by 
Gauguin  of  the  lady  whose  legs  are  like  thin 
pillows  and  her  arms  like  fat  ropes,  very  what 
you  call  strained,  and  funny.' 

"After  which  her  remarks  centred  around  a 
lover  of  her  sister,  who  had  just  died  at  the  age 
of  seventy,  and  Titi  considered  that  the  denoue- 
ment made  by  Manu,  the  sister,  was  uncalled  for 
[282] 


HETEROGENEOUS  MAGIC  OF  IVIAUGHAM 

at  the  death  bed,  since  the  true  and  faithful  wife 
stood  there  surrounded  by  nine  children,  all  safely 
born  the  right  side  of  the  sheet.  She  did  mention 
that  the  removal  of  the  door  from  the  fare  caused 
the  wind  to  enter.  And  although  I  often  made 
inquiries,  I  never  gained  much  information. 
Tahiti,  as  a  whole,  seemed  unaware  of  Maugham's 
visit. 

"They  may  have  adored  him;  but  I  suspect  he 
was  a  quiet  joy,  the  kind  native  Tahiti  soon  for- 
gets, certainly  not  the  kind  of  joy  she  embodies 
in  her  national  songs  and  himines.  Such  are  the 
merry  drunkards,  inefficient  though  earnest  white 
hulahula  dancers  and  the  plain  (more  than  every- 
day) sinners  who  cut  up  rough  with  wild  jagged 
edges  and  cruel  tearings. 

"His  occasional  appearance  at  the  French  club 
would  raise  his  status,  removing  any  light  touches 
with  his  junketings,  perhaps  turning  them  into 
dignified  ceremonies.  Which,  for  the  Tahitian, 
approaches  the  end.  The  Tahitian  never  quite 
understands  the  white  man  who  consorts  with  the 
French  officials,  although  many  do.  'For  are  not 
these  men  of  Farane,'  says  the  native,  'like  the 
hen  that  talks  without  feathers'?' — whatever  that 
may  mean,  but  it  suggests  at  once  the  talkative 
Frenchman  denuding  himself  on  hot  evenings, 
and  wearing  but  the  native  pareu  to  hide  portions 
of  his  bad  figure. 

"But  although,  in  some  ways,  Maugham  hid 
himself  from  the  natives  and  pleasant  half-castes, 

[283] 


WHEN  WINTER  COMES  TO  MAIN  STREET 

he  saw  them  all  right,  and  clearly,  since  the  clos- 
ing pages  of  the  The  Moon  and  Sixpence  display 
a  magical  picture  of  that  portion  of  Tahiti  he 
found  time  to  explore." 


IV 

Mr.  Maugham  now  offers  us  On  a  Chinese 
Screen^  sketches  of  Chinese  life,  and  I^ast  of  Suez, 
his  new  play. 

There  are  fifty-eight  sketches  in  On  a  Chinese 
Screen,  portraits  including  European  residents  in 
China  as  well  as  native  types.  Here  is  a  sample 
of  the  book,  the  little  descriptive  study  with  which 
it  closes,  entitled  "A  Libation  to  the  Gods" : 

"She  was  an  old  woman,  and  her  face  was 
wizened  and  deeply  lined.  In  her  grey  hair  three 
long  silver  knives  formed  a  fantastic  headgear. 
Her  dress  of  faded  blue  consisted  of  a  long  jacket, 
worn  and  patched,  and  a  pair  of  trousers  that 
reached  a  little  below  her  calves.  Her  feet  were 
bare,  but  on  one  ankle  she  wore  a  silver  bangle. 
It  was  plain  that  she  was  very  poor.  She  was 
not  stout  but  squarely  built  and  in  her  prime  she 
must  have  done  without  effort  the  heavy  work  in 
which  her  life  had  been  spent.  She  walked 
leisurely,  with  the  sedate  tread  of  an  elderly 
woman,  and  she  carried  on  her  arm  a  basket.  She 
came  down  to  the  harbour;  it  was  crowded  with 
painted  junks;  her  eyes  rested  for  a  moment  curi- 
ously on  a  man  who  stood  on  a  narrow  bamboo 

[284] 


HETEROGENEOUS  MAGIC  OF  MAUGHAM 

raft,  fishing  with  cormorants;  and  then  she  set 
about  her  business.  She  put  down  her  basket  on 
the  stones  of  the  quay,  at  the  water's  edge,  and 
took  from  it  a  red  candle.  This  she  lit  and  fixed 
in  a  chink  of  the  stones.  Then  she  took  several 
joss-sticks,  held  each  of  them  for  a  moment  in 
the  flame  of  the  candle  and  set  them  up  around 
it.  She  took  three  tiny  bowls  and  filled  them 
with  a  liquid  that  she  had  brought  with  her  in  a 
bottle  and  placed  them  neatly  in  a  row.  Then 
from  her  basket  she  took  rolls  of  paper  cash  and 
paper  'shoes'  and  unravelled  them,  so  that  they 
should  burn  easily.  She  made  a  little  bonfire, 
and  when  it  was  well  alight  she  took  the  three 
bowls  and  poured  out  some  of  their  contents  be- 
fore the  smouldering  joss-sticks.  She  bowed  her- 
self three  times  and  muttered  certain  words.  She 
stirred  the  burning  paper  so  that  the  flames  burned 
brightly.  Then  she  emptied  the  bowls  on  the 
stones  and  again  bowed  three  times.  No  one  took 
the  smallest  notice  of  her.  She  took  a  few  more 
paper  cash  from  her  basket  and  flung  them  in  the 
Are.  Then,  without  further  ado,  she  took  up  her 
basket,  and  with  the  same  leisurely,  rather  heavy 
tread,  walked  away.  The  gods  were  duly  pro- 
pitiated, and  like  an  old  peasant  woman  in 
France,  who  has  satisfactorily  done  her  day's 
housekeeping,  she  went  about  her  business." 


[285] 


WHEN  WINTER  COMES  TO  MAIN  STREET 


W.  Somerset  Maugham  was  born  in  1874,  ^^^ 
son  of  Robert  Ormond  Maugham.  He  married 
Syrie,  daughter  of  the  late  Dr.  Barnardo.  Mr. 
Maugham  has  a  daughter.  His  education  was 
got  at  King's  School,  Canterbury,  at  Heidelberg 
University  and  at  St.  Thomas's  Hospital,  London. 

Mr.  Maugham's  father  was  a  comparatively 
prominent  solicitor,  responsible  for  the  founda- 
tion of  the  Incorporated  Society  of  Solicitors  in 
England.  Somerset  Maugham,  after  studying 
medicine  at  Heidelberg,  went  to  St.  Thomas's,  in 
the  section  of  London  known  as  Lambeth.  He 
obtained  his  medical  degree  there.  St.  Thomas's 
just  across  the  river  from  Westminster  proved 
his  medical  ruin,  and  his  literary  birth.  The 
hospital  is  situated  on  the  border  of  the  slum  areas 
of  South  London  where  much  that  is  hopeless, 
terrible,  and  wildly  cheerful  can  be  found.  Per- 
sons are  not  wanting  who  hold  that  the  slums  of 
Battersea  and  Lambeth  contain  more  misery  and 
poverty  than  Limehouse,  Whitechapel  and  the 
dark  forest  surrounding  the  Commercial  Road 
combined.  To  St.  Thomas's  daily  comes  a  pro- 
cession of  battered  derelicts,  seeking  attention 
from  the  young  men  in  white  tunics  who  hope  to 
be  doctors  on  their  own  account  some  day.  To 
St.  Thomas's  came  Eliza  of  Lambeth,  came  Liza's 
mother,  came  Jim  and  Tom.  Here  is  the  genesis 
of  Maugham's  first  serious  work,  Liza  of  Lambeth. 

[286] 


HETEROGENEOUS  MAGIC  OF  MAUGHAM 

It  will  be  simpler  and  less  confusing  to  deal 
with  Somerset  Maugham  in  the  first  instance  as  a 
maker  of  books  rather  than  as  a  playwright.  One 
cannot  help  believing  that,  while  not  one  of  his 
plays  can  be  regarded  as  a  pot  boiler,  they  yet  but 
seldom  display  that  fervent  purpose  found  in  his 
books.  Yet  in  his  plays,  one  finds  a  greater  at- 
tention to  conventional  technique  and  "form" 
than  one  finds  in  books  like  Of  Human  Bondage 
and  The  Moon  and  Sixpence. 

The  first  book  launched  by  Somerset  Maugham, 
Liza  of  Lambeth.,  could  hardly  have  been,  consid- 
ering its  slight  dimensions,  a  clearer  indication  of 
the  line  he  was  to  follow.  It  came  out  at  a  time 
when  Gissing  was  still  in  favour,  and  the  odour 
of  mean  streets  was  accepted  as  synonymous  with 
literary  honesty  and  courage.  There  is  certainly 
no  lack  of  either  about  this  idyll  of  Elizabeth 
Kemp  of  the  lissome  limbs  and  auburn  hair.  The 
story  pursues  its  way,  and  one  sees  the  soul  of  a 
woman  shining  clearly  through  the  racy  dialect 
and  frolics  of  the  Chingford  beano,  the  rueful 
futility  of  faithful  Thomas  and  the  engaging 
callousness  of  Liza's  mother. 

Somerset  Maugham's  next  study  in  female  por- 
traiture showed  how  far  he  could  travel  towards 
perfection.  Mrs.  Craddock.,  which  is  often  called 
his  best  book,  is  a  sex  satire  punctuated  by  four 
curtains,  two  of  comedy  and  two  of  tragedy.  This 
mixture  of  opposites  should  have  been  enough  to 
damn  it  in  the  eyes  of  a  public  intent  upon  classi- 

[287] 


WHEN  WINTER  COMES  TO  MAIN  STREET 

fying  everything  by  means  of  labels  and  of 
making  everything  so  classified  stick  to  its  label 
like  grim  death.  Yet  the  unclassified  may  flour- 
ish, and  does,  when  its  merit  is  beyond  dispute. 
Mrs.  Craddock  appeared  fully  a  decade  before  its 
time,  when  Victorian  influences  were  still  alive, 
and  the  modern  idea  for  well  to  do  women  to  have 
something  to  justify  their  existence  was  still  in 
the  nature  of  a  novelty.  Even  in  the  fuller  light 
of  experience,  Maugham  could  hardly  have  bet- 
tered his  study  of  an  impulsive  and  exigent 
woman,  rising  at  the  outset  to  the  height  of  a  bold 
and  womanly  choice  in  defiance  of  social  prejudice 
and  family  tradition,  and  then  relapsing  under 
the  disillusions  of  marriage  into  the  weakest  fail- 
ings of  her  class,  rising  again,  from  a  self-tortur- 
ing neurotic  into  a  kind  of  Niobe  at  the  death  of 
her  baby. 

The  ironic  key  of  the  book  is  at  its  best,  in  the 
passage  half  way  through — 

"Mr.  Craddock's  principles,  of  course,  were 
quite  right;  he  had  given  her  plenty  of  run  and 
ignored  her  cackle,  and  now  she  had  come  home 
to  roost.  There  is  nothing  like  a  knowledge  of 
farming,  and  an  acquaintance  with  the  habits  of 
domestic  animals,  to  teach  a  man  how  to  manage 
his  wife." 


VI 


As  a  playwright  Mr.  Maugham  is  quite  as  well 
known  as  he  is  for  his  novels.     The  author  of 

[288] 


HETEROGENEOUS  MAGIC  OF  MAUGHAM 

Lady  Frederick,  Mrs.  Dot,  and  Caroline — the 
creator  of  Lord  Porteous  and  Lady  Kitty  in  The 
Circle — writes  his  plays  because  it  amuses  him  to 
do  so  and  because  they  supply  him  with  an  ex- 
cellent income.    Here  is  a  good  story: 

It  seems  that  Maugham  had  peddled  his  first 
play,  Lady  Frederick,  to  the  offices  of  seventeen 
well-known  London  managers,  until  it  came  to 
rest  in  the  Archives  of  the  Court  Theatre.  The 
Court  Theatre,  standing  in  Sloane  Square  near 
the  Tube  station,  is  definitely  outside  the  London 
theatre  area,  but  as  the  scene  of  productions  by 
the  Stage  Society,  it  is  kept  in  the  running.  How- 
ever, it  might  conceivably  be  the  last  port  of  call 
for  a  worn  manuscript. 

It  so  happened  that  Athole  Stewart,  the  man- 
ager of  the  Court  Theatre,  found  himself  needing 
a  play  very  badly  during  one  season.  The  the- 
atre had  to  be  kept  open  and  there  was  nothing 
to  keep  it  open  with.  From  a  dingy  pile  of  play 
manuscripts  he  chose  Lady  Frederick.  He  had  no 
hopes  of  its  success — or  so  it  is  said — but  the 
success  materialised.  At  the  anniversary  of  Lady 
Frederick  in  London,  Maugham  thought  of  ask- 
ing to  dinner  the  seventeen  managers  who  re- 
jected the  play,  but  realising  that  no  man  enjoyed 
being  reminded  of  a  lost  opportunity  he  decided 
to  forgo  the  pleasure. 

The  circumstances  in  which  Caroline  was  writ- 
ten give  an  interesting  reflex  on  Maugham  as  an 
artist.     This  delicious  comedy  was  put  on  paper 

[289] 


WHEN  WINTER  COMES  TO  MAIN  STREET 

while  Maugham  was  acting  as  British  agent  in 
Switzerland  during  the  war.  Some  of  its  more 
amusing  lines  were  written  in  some  haste  while 
a  spy  (of  uncertain  intentions  toward  Maugham) 
stood  outside  in  the  snow. 


Vll 

Someone,  probably  the  gifted  Hector  Mac- 
Quarrie,  whom  I  fear  I  have  guiltily  been  quoting 
in  almost  every  sentence  of  this  chapter,  has  said 
that  Maugham  writes  "transcripts,  not  of  life  as 
a  tolerable  whole,  but  of  phases  which  suit  his 
arbitrary  treatment."  It  is  an  enlightening  com- 
ment. 

But  Maugham  himself  is  the  keenest  appraiser 
of  his  own  intentions  in  his  work,  as  when  he 
spoke  of  the  stories  in  his  book.  The  Trembling 
of  a  Leaf^  as  not  short  stories,  but  "a  study  of  the 
effect  of  the  Islands  of  the  Pacific  on  the  white 
man." 

The  man  never  stays  still.  When  you  think 
the  time  is  ripe  for  him  triumphally  to  tour  Amer- 
ica— when  The  Moon  and  Sixpence  has  attracted 
the  widest  attention — he  insists  on  going  imme- 
diately to  China.  This  may  be  because,  though 
well  set  up,  black-eyed,  broad-framed  and  exces- 
sively handsome  in  evening  clothes,  he  is  rather 
diffident. 


[290] 


HETEROGENEOUS  MAGIC  OF   MAUGHAM 

Books 
by  W.  Somerset  Maugham 

Novels: 

LIZA  OF   LAMBETH 

THE    MAKING   OF    A   SAINT 

ORIENTATIONS 

THE  HERO 

MRS.    CRADDOCK 

THE    MERRY-GO-ROUND 

THE   LAND  OF  THE  BLESSED  VIRGIN 

THE   bishop's  APRON 

THE    EXPLORER 

THE    MAGICIAN 

OF  HUMAN    BONDAGE 

THE    MOON   AND   SIXPENCE 

THE  TREMBLING  OF  A   LEAF 

ON  A  CHINESE  SCREEN 

Plays: 

SCHIFFBRUCHIG 

A   MAN   OF    HONOUR 

LADY  FREDERICK 

JACK  STRAW 

MRS.  DOT 

THE  EXPLORER 

PENELOPE 

SMITH 

THE  TENTH   MAN 

GRACE 

LOAVES  AND  FISHES 

[291] 


WHEN  WINTER  COMES  TO  MAIN  STREET 

the  land  of  promise 
caroline 
love  in  a  cottage 
Cesar's  wife 
home  and  beauty 
the  unknown 
the  circle 
east  of  suez 


Sources 
on  W.  Somerset  Maugham 

Who's  Who  [In  England]. 
Somerset  Maugham  in  Tahiti:  Hitherto  unpub- 
lished article  by  Hector  MacQuarrie. 
THE  BOOKMAN  (London). 
Private  information. 


[292] 


Chapter  XVIII 
BOOKS  WE  LIVE  BY 


^TIHE   Parallel   New    Testament    is   by    Dr. 

X  James  Moffatt,  whose  New  Translation 
of  the  New  Testament  has  excited  such  wide  ad- 
miration and  praise.  The  Parallel  New  Testa- 
ment presents  the  Authorised  Version  and  Pro- 
fessor Moffatt's  translation  in  parallel  columns, 
together  with  a  brief  introduction  to  the  New 
Testament. 

I  suppose  there  is  no  sense  in  my  expending 
adjectives  in  praise  of  Dr.  Moffatt's  translation 
of  the  New  Testament.  I  could  do  so  very  easily. 
But  what  I  think  would  be  more  effective  would 
be  to  ask  you  to  take  a  copy  of  the  Authorised 
Version  and  read  in  it  some  such  passage  as  Luke, 
24th  chapter,  13th  verse,  to  the  close  of  the  chap- 
ter and  then — and  not  before! — read  the  same 
account  from  Dr.  Moffatt's  New  Translation,  as 
follows : 

"That  very  day  two  of  them  were  on  their  way 
to  a  village  called  Emmaus  about  seven  miles 
from  Jerusalem.    They  were  conversing  about  all 

[293] 


WHEN  WINTER  COMES  TO  MAIN  STREET 

these  events,  and  during  their  conversation  and 
discussion  Jesus  himself  approached  and  walked 
beside  them,  though  they  were  prevented  from 
recognising  him.  He  said  to  them,  'What  is  all 
this  you  are  debating  on  your  walk*?'  They 
stopped,  looking  downcast,  and  one  of  them, 
called  Cleopas,  answered  him,  'Are  you  a  lone 
stranger  in  Jerusalem,  not  to  know  what  has  been 
happening  there*?'  'What  is  that'?'  he  said  to 
them.  They  replied,  'All  about  Jesus  of  Nazaret ! 
To  God  and  all  the  people  he  was  a  prophet  strong 
in  action  and  utterance,  but  the  high  priests  and 
our  rulers  delivered  him  up  to  be  sentenced  to 
death  and  crucified  him.  Our  own  hope  was  that 
he  would  be  the  redeemer  of  Israel ;  but  he  is  dead 
and  that  is  three  days  ago !  Though  some  women 
of  our  number  gave  us  a  surprise;  they  were  at 
the  tomb  early  in  the  morning  and  could  not  find 
his  body,  but  they  came  to  tell  us  they  had 
actually  seen  a  vision  of  angels  who  declared  he 
was  alive.  Some  of  our  company  did  go  to  the 
tomb  and  found  things  exactly  as  the  women  had 
said,  but  they  did  not  see  him.'  He  said  to  them, 
'Oh,  foolish  men,  with  hearts  so  slow  to  believe, 
after  all  the  prophets  have  declared!  Had  not 
the  Christ  to  suffer  thus  and  so  enter  his  glory?' 
Then  he  began  with  Moses  and  all  the  prophets 
and  interpreted  to  them  the  passages  referring  to 
himself  throughout  the  scriptures.  Now  they  ap- 
proached the  village  to  which  they  were  going. 
He  pretended  to  be  going  further  on,  but  they 

[294] 


BOOKS  WE  LIVE  BY 

pressed  him,  saying  'Stay  with  us,  for  it  is  getting 
towards  evening  and  the  day  has  now  declined.' 
So  he  went  in  to  stay  with  them.  And  as  he  lay 
at  the  table  with  them  he  took  the  loaf,  blessed  it, 
broke  it  and  handed  it  to  them.  Then  their  eyes 
were  opened  and  they  recognised  him,  but  he  van- 
ished from  their  sight.  And  they  said  to  one  an- 
other, 'Did  not  our  hearts  glow  within  us  when 
he  was  talking  to  us  on  the  road,  opening  up  the 
scriptures  for  us^'  So  they  got  up  and  returned 
that  very  hour  to  Jerusalem,  where  they  found 
the  eleven  and  their  friends  all  gathered,  who 
told  them  that  the  Lord  had  really  risen  and  that 
he  had  appeared  to  Simon.  Then  they  related 
their  own  experience  on  the  road  and  how  they 
had  recognised  him  when  he  broke  the  loaf.  Just 
as  they  were  speaking  He  stood  among  them  [and 
said  to  them,  'Peace  to  you  I'] .  They  were  scared 
and  terrified,  imagining  it  was  a  ghost  they  saw; 
but  he  said  to  them,  'Why  are  you  upset  *?  Why 
do  doubts  invade  your  mind*?  Look  at  my  hands 
and  feet.  It  is  I !  Feel  me  and  see ;  a  ghost  has 
not  flesh  and  bones  as  you  see  I  have.'  [W^ith 
these  words  he  showed  them  his  hands  and  feet.  ] 
Even  yet  they  could  not  believe  it  for  sheer  joy; 
they  were  lost  in  wonder.  So  he  said  to  them, 
'Have  you  any  food  here*?'  And  when  they 
handed  him  a  piece  of  broiled  fish,  he  took  and 
ate  it  in  their  presence.  Then  he  said  to  them, 
'When  I  was  still  with  you,  this  is  what  I  told 
you,  that  whatever  is  written  about  me  in  the  law 

[295] 


WHEN  WINTER  COMES  TO  MAIN  STREET 

of  Moses  and  the  prophets  and  the  psalms  must  be 
fulfilled.'  Then  he  opened  their  minds  to  under- 
stand the  scriptures,  'Thus,'  he  said,  'it  is  writ- 
ten that  the  Christ  has  to  suffer  and  rise  from  the 
dead  on  the  third  day  and  that  repentance  and 
the  remission  of  sins  must  be  preached  in  his  name 
to  all  nations,  beginning  from  Jerusalem.  To 
this  you  must  bear  testimony.  And  I  will  send 
down  on  you  what  my  Father  has  promised ;  wait 
in  the  city  till  you  are  endued  with  power  from 
on  high.'  He  led  them  out  as  far  as  Bethany; 
then,  lifting  his  hands,  he  blessed  them.  And  as 
he  blessed  them,  he  parted  from  them  [and  was 
carried  up  to  heaven].  They  [worshipped  him 
and]  returned  with  great  joy  to  Jerusalem,  where 
they  spent  all  their  time  within  the  temple,  bless- 
ing God." 

I  am  particularly  glad  to  say  that  Dr.  Moffatt 
is  at  work  now  on  a  New  Translation  of  the  Old 
Testament.  No  man  living  is  fitter  for  this  tre- 
mendously important  and  tremendously  difficult 
task  than  James  Moffatt.  Born  in  Glasgow  in 
1870,  Dr.  Moffatt  has  been  Professor  of  Church 
History  there  since  1915.  Of  his  many  pub- 
lished studies  in  Bible  literature,  I  now  speak 
only  of  The  Approach  to  the  New  Testament^ 
which  he  modestly  describes  as  "a  brief  statement 
of  the  general  situation  created  by  historical  criti- 
cism," aiming  to  "bring  out  the  positive  value  of 
the  New  Testament  literature  for  the  world  of 
today  as  a  source  of  guidance  in  social  reconstruc- 

[296] 


BOOKS  WE  LIVE  BY 

tion,  so  that  readers  might  be  enabled  to  recover 
or  retain  a  sense  of  its  lasting  significance  for  per- 
sonal faith  and  social  ideals." 


11 

With  Alfred  Dwight  Sheffield's  Joining  in 
Public  Discussion  was  begun  publication  of  a 
unique  collection  of  books  suitable  alike  for  gen- 
eral reading  and  for  use  in  trade  union  colleges. 
This  is  the  Workers'  Bookshelf  Series.  These 
books,  in  many  instances,  are  being  written  by 
the  chief  authorities  on  their  subjects — men  who 
have  dealt  exhaustively  with  their  specialties  in 
two  and  three-volume  treatises,  and  who  now 
bring  their  great  knowledge  to  a  sharp  focus  and 
a  simple,  condensed  statement  in  small  but  wholly 
authoritative  new  books. 

The  work  of  preparing  these  little  masterpieces 
has  been  undertaken  by  an  editorial  board  chosen 
with  the  aid  of  the  Workers'  Education  Bureau 
of  America.  The  board  consists  of  Charles  A. 
Beard,  Miss  Fannia  Cohn,  H.  W.  L.  Dana,  John 
P.  Frey,  Arthur  Gleason,  Everitt  Dean  Martin, 
Spencer  Miller,  Jr.,  George  W.  Perkins  and 
Robert  Wolf. 

Trade  union  colleges  now  exist  all  over  the 
United  States,  training  armies  of  workers.  The 
lack  of  suitable  texts  for  use  in  these  colleges  has 
been  a  serious  obstacle  to  the  training  they  desire 
to  give. 

[297] 


WHEN  WINTER  COMES  TO  MAIN  STREET 

This  obstacle  the  Workers'  Bookshelf  over- 
comes. The  books  that  compose  it  will  each  be 
distinguished  for  (a)  scholarship,  (b)  a  scientific 
attitude  toward  facts,  and  (c)  simplicity  of  style. 

Each  volume  is  beginning  as  a  class  outline  and 
will  receive  the  benefit  of  every  suggestion  and 
criticism  through  its  gradual  growth  into  the 
written  book. 

Each  book  will  be  brief.  Its  references  will 
help  the  reader  to  more  detailed  sources  of  in- 
formation. 

By  binding  the  books  in  paper  as  well  as  in 
cloth,  the  volumes  will  be  brought  within  the 
reach  of  all. 

The  Workers'  Bookshelf  will  contain  no  vol- 
umes on  vocational  guidance,  nor  any  books  which 
give  "short  cuts"  to  moneymaking  success. 

The  series  will  not  be  limited  to  any  set  num- 
ber of  volumes  nor  to  any  programme  of  subjects. 
Art,  literature  and  the  natural  sciences,  as  well 
as  the  social  sciences,  will  be  dealt  with.  New 
titles  will  be  added  as  the  demand  for  treatment 
of  a  topic  becomes  apparent. 

The  first  use  of  these  books  will  be  as  texts  to 
educate  workers;  the  intermediate  use  of  the 
books  will  be  as  the  nucleus  of  workingmen's 
libraries,  collective  and  personal,  and  the  last  use 
of  the  Workers'  Bookshelf  will  be  to  instruct  and 
delight  all  readers  of  serious  books  everywhere. 

In  our  modern  industrial  society,  knowledge — 
things  to  know — increases  much  more  rapidly  than 

[298] 


BOOKS  WE  LIVE  BY 

our  understanding.  The  worker  finds  it  increas- 
ingly difficult  to  comprehend  the  world  he  has 
done  most  to  create.  The  education  of  the  worker 
consists  in  showing  him  in  a  simple  fashion  the 
interrelations  of  that  world  and  all  its  aspects 
as  they  are  turned  toward  him.  On  the  education 
of  the  worker  depends  the  future  of  industrialism, 
and,  indeed,  of  all  human  society. 

The  author  of  Joining  in  Public  Discussion  is 
professor  of  rhetoric  in  Wellesley  College  and 
instructor  in  the  Boston  Trade  Union  College. 
His  book  "is  a  study  of  effective  speechmaking, 
for  members  of  labour  unions,  conferences,  forums 
and  other  discussion  groups."  The  first  section 
is  upon  "Qualifying  Oneself  to  Contribute"  to 
any  discussion  and  the  second  section  is  upon 
"Making  the  Discussion  Group  Co-operate."  A 
brief  introduction  explains  "What  Discussion 
Aims  to  Do." 

The  following  titles  of  the  Workers'  Bookshelf 
are  in  preparation : 

Trade  Union  Policy^  by  Dr.  Leo  Wolman, 
lecturer  at  the  New  School  for  Social  Research 
and  instructor  in  the  Workers'  University  of 
the  International  Ladies'  Garment  Workers' 
Union. 

Women  and  the  Labor  Movement^  by  Alice 
Henry,  editor  of  Life  and  Labour,  director  of 
the  Training  School  for  Women  Workers  in 
Industry. 

Labor  and  Healthy  by  Dr.  Emery  Hayhurst  of 

[299] 


WHEN  WINTER  COMES  TO  MAIN  STREET 

Ohio  State  University,  author  of  "Industrial 
Health  Hazards  and  Occupational  Diseases." 

Social  Forces  in  Literature^  by  Dr.  H.  W.  L. 
Dana,  formerly  teacher  of  comparative  literature 
at  Columbia,  now  instructor  at  Boston  Trade 
Union  College. 

The  Creative  Spirit  in  Industry^  by  Robert  B. 
Wolf,  vice-president  of  the  American  Society  of 
Mechanical  Engineers,  member  of  the  Federated 
American  Engineering  Society. 

Co-operative  Movement^  by  Dr.  James  B. 
Warbasse,  president  of  the  Co-operative  League 
of  America  and  instructor  at  the  Workers'  Uni- 
versity. 

•  •  • 

111 

Side  by  side  in  Esme  Wingfield-Stratford's 
Facing  Reality  are  chapters  with  these  titles: 
"Thinking  in  a  Passion"  and  "Mental  Inertia." 
Those  chapter  titles  seem  to  me  to  signify  the 
chief  dangers  confronting  the  world  today — per- 
haps confronting  the  world  in  any  day — and  the 
main  reasons  why  we  do  not  face  reality  as  we 
should.  I  regard  Facing  Reality  as  an  important 
book  and  I  am  not  alone  in  so  regarding  it.  What 
do  we  mean  by  reality?  The  answer  is  explicit  in 
a  sentence  in  Mr.  Wingfield-Stratford's  introduc- 
tion, where  he  says: 

"But  if  we  are  to  get  right  with  reality  or,  in 
the  time-honoured  evangelical  phrase,  with  God, 
it  must  be  by  a  ruthless  determination  to  get  the 

[300] 


BOOKS  WE  LIVE  BY 

truth  in  religion,  even  if  we  have  to  break  down 
Church  walls  to  attain  it." 

Then  the  author  proceeds  to  assess  the  social 
and  ethical  conditions  which  threaten  the  world 
with  spiritual  bankruptcy.     As  he  says: 

"Whether  Germany  can  be  fleeced  of  a  yearly 
contribution,  of  doubtful  advantage  to  the  re- 
ceiver, for  forty  years  or  sixty,  what  particular 
economic  laws  decree  that  Poles  should  be  gov- 
erned by  Germans  or  vice-versa,  whose  honour  or 
profit  demands  the  possession  of  the  town  of 
Fiume  or  the  district  of  Tetschen  or  the  Island  of 
Yap,  why  all  the  horses  and  men  of  the  Entente 
are  necessary  to  compel  the  Port  of  Dantzig  to 
become  a  free  city,  what  particular  delicacy  of 
national  honour  requires  that  the  impartial  dis- 
tribution of  colonies  should  be  interpreted  as 
meaning  the  appropriation  of  the  whole  of  them 
by  the  victors — all  these  things  are  held  by  uni- 
versal consent  to  be  more  urgent  and  interesting 
than  the  desperate  necessity  that  confronts  us 
all." 

And  yet,  for  some,  reality  is  not  immanent  in 
the  affairs  of  this  world  but  only  in  those  of  the 
next.  Among  the  men  who,  with  Sir  Oliver 
Lodge,  have  gone  most  deeply  and  earnestly  into 
the  whole  subject  we  call  "spiritualism,"  Sir 
Arthur  Conan  Doyle  is  now  the  most  widely 
known  as  he  has  always  been  the  most  persuasive. 
The  overflowing  crowds  which  came  out  to  hear 
him  lecture  on  psychic  evidences  during  his  recent 

[301] 


WHEN  WINTER  COMES  TO  MAIN  STREET 

tour  of  America  testify  to  the  unquenchable  hope 
of  mankind  in  a  life  beyond  ours.  Sir  Arthur 
has  written  three  books  on  this  subject  closest  to 
his  heart.  The  New  Revelation  and  The  Vital 
Message  are  both  short  books  presenting  the  gen- 
eral case  for  spiritualists;  The  Wanderings  of  a 
Spiritualist^  the  result  of  a  lecture  tour  in  India 
and  Australia,  commingles  incidents  of  travel 
with  discussions  of  psychic  phenomena.  I  believe 
Sir  Arthur  has  in  preparation  a  more  extensive 
work,  probably  to  be  published  under  the  title 
Spiritualism  and  Rationalism. 

In  recent  years  there  has  been  something  like  a 
consensus  honouring  Havelock  Ellis  as  the  ablest 
living  authority  on  the  subject  of  sex;  or  perhaps 
I  should  say  that  Mr.  Ellis  and  his  wife  are  the 
most  competent  writers  on  this  difficult  and  deli- 
cate subject,  so  beset  by  fraudulent  theories  and 
so  much  written  upon  by  charlatans.  Let  me 
recommend  to  you  Havelock  Ellis's  slender  book, 
Little  Essays  of  Love  and  Virtue^  for  a  sane,  at- 
tractive and,  at  the  same  time,  authoritative 
handling  of  sex  problems. 

iv 

Little  Essays  of  Love  and  Virtue^  however,  is, 
after  all,  only  upon  a  special  subject,  even  though 
of  extreme  importance.  There  are  others  among 
the  books  we  live  by  which  I  must  speak  of  here. 
It  is  tiresome  to  point  out  that  we  are  all  self- 

[302] 


BOOKS  WE  LIVE  BY 

made  men  or  women,  consciously  or  unconsciously, 
in  the  sense  that  if  we  gain  control  of  our  habits, 
to  a  very  large  extent  we  acquire  control  of  our 
lives.  If,  in  Sofne  Things  That  Matter  Lord 
Riddell  did  no  more  than  point  out  this  old  truth, 
his  book  would  not  be  worth  mentioning.  What 
makes  it  so  well  worth  mentioning,  so  much  more 
deserving  of  discussion  than  any  I  can  enter  upon 
here,  is  the  fact  that  Lord  Riddell  tells  how  to 
observe,  how  to  read,  and  how  to  think — or  per- 
haps I  should  say  how  to  develop  the  habit  of 
thought.  I  think,  so  able  are  his  instructions,  so 
pointed  and  so  susceptible  of  carrying  out  by  any 
reader,  that  his  book  would  carry  due  weight  even 
if  it  were  anonymous.  But  for  those  who  want 
assurance  that  the  author  of  Some  Things  That 
Matter  is  himself  somebody  who  matters,  let  me 
point  out  that  he  is  one  of  the  largest  newspaper 
proprietors  in  the  world,  a  man  whose  grasp  on 
affairs  has  twice  placed  him  at  the  head  of  news 
service  for  two  continents — once  at  the  Peace 
Conference  in  Paris  and  afterward  at  the  Dis- 
armament Conference  in  Washington. 

Some  Things  That  Matter  is  the  best  book  of 
its  kind  since  Arnold  Bennett's  How  to  Live  on 
Twenty-four  Hours  a  Day,  a  little  book  of  trench- 
ant advice  to  which  it  is  a  pleasure  again  to  call 
attention.  Of  all  Mr.  Bennett's  pocket  philoso- 
phies— Self  and  Self-Management,  Friendship 
and  Happiness,  The  Human  Machine,  Mental 
Efficiency  and  Married  Life — How  to  Live  on 

[303] 


WHEN  WINTER  COMES  TO  MAIN  STREET 

Twenty-four  Hours  a  Day  is  easily  of  the  greatest 
service  to  the  greatest  number  of  people. 


I  read  Dr.  George  L.  Perin's  Self-Healing 
Sifnplified  in  manuscript  and  enthusiastically 
recommended  its  acceptance  for  publication.  Dr. 
Perin  was  the  founder  of  the  Franklin  Square 
House  for  Girls  in  Boston,  a  home-hotel  from 
which  70,000  girls,  most  of  whom  Dr.  Perin  knew 
personally,  have  gone  forth  all  over  these  United 
States.  His  death  at  the  end  of  1921  was  felt 
by  thousands  of  people  as  a  personal  loss.  He 
left,  in  the  manuscript  of  this  book,  the  best  and 
simplest  volume  I  know  of  on  what  is  generally 
called  autosuggestion.  And  I  have  examined  a 
great  many  books  of  the  sort. 

Discarding  all  extreme  claims,  Dr.  Perin  says 
in  the  first  place  that  the  mind  can  heal;  that  it 
may  not  be  able  to  heal  alone;  that  obviously  no 
form  of  healing  can  be  successful  without  a 
favourable  mental  state;  that  the  favourable 
mental  state  can  usually  be  acquired  by  the  sin- 
cere and  conscious  effort  of  the  sufferer.  This 
effort  should  take  the  form  of  certain  affirmations. 

It  is  at  this  point  that  the  ordinary  book  on 
autosuggestion  breaks  down — so  far  as  any  prac- 
tical usefulness  is  concerned.  Either  it  degen- 
erates into  a  purely  technical  treatise  or  it  be- 
comes lost  in  a  mysticism  which  is  to  the  average 

[304] 


BOOKS  WE  LIVE  BY 

reader  incomprehensible.  What  has  long  been 
needed  has  been  a  book  like  Self -Healing  Simpli- 
fied, readable  by  the  ordinary  person  who  has  his 
own  troubles  to  contend  with  and  who  knows  not 
how  to  contend  with  them;  who  is  willing  to  be- 
lieve that  he  can  do  his  part  by  cheerful  resolu- 
tions and  faith  toward  getting  well,  but  who  has 
no  idea  what  to  do. 

Dr.  Perin  tells  him  what  to  do,  what  to  say, 
what  to  think  and  how  to  order  his  daily  life. 
Actually  Dr.  Perin  does  much  more  than  this;  his 
own  confidence  and  personal  success  inspire  con- 
fidence and  give  the  impulsion  toward  one's  own 
personal  success.  However,  excellent  as  the  book 
might  be,  it  would  be  worthless  if  it  were  not 
clearly  and  simply  expressed.  It  is.  I  remember 
no  book  of  the  kind  so  direct  and  so  lucid. 


VI 

It  is  a  pleasure  to  feel  that  his  new  book,  Poets 
and  Puritans,  introduces  T.  R.  Glover  to  a  wider 
audience.  The  author  of  The  Pilgrim,  Essays  on 
Religion,  The  Nature  and  Purpose  of  a  Christian 
Society,  Jesus  in  the  Experience  of  Man  and  The 
Jesus  of  History  is  a  scholar  and  somewhat  of  a 
recluse  whom  one  finds  after  much  groping  about 
dim  halls  at  Cambridge.  A  highly  individual 
personality!  It  is  this  personality,  though,  that 
makes  the  fascination  of  Poets  and  Pilgrims — a 
volume   of   studies    in   which    the   subjects    are 

[305] 


WHEN  WINTER  COMES  TO  MAIN  STREET 

Spenser,  Milton,  Evelyn,  Bunyan,  Boswell, 
Crabbe,  Wordsworth  and  Carlyle.  Mr.  Glover 
notes  at  the  foot  of  the  table  of  contents:  "An 
acute  young  critic,  who  saw  some  of  the  proofs, 
has  asked  me,  with  a  hint  of  irony,  whether 
Evelyn  and  Boswell  were  Puritans  or  Poets.  Any 
reader  who  has  a  conscience  about  the  matter  must 
omit  these  essays."  There  you  have  the  flavour  of 
the  man  I  It  is  expressed  further  in  the  short 
preface  of  Poets  and  Puritans: — 

"Wandering  among  books  and  enjoying  them, 
I  find  in  a  certain  sense  that,  the  more  I  enjoy 
them,  the  harder  becomes  the  task  of  criticism, 
the  less  sure  one's  faith  in  critical  canons,  and  the 
fewer    the    canons    themselves.     Of    one    thing, 
though,  I  grow  more  and  more  sure — that  the  real 
business  of  the  critic  is  to  find  out  what  is  right 
with  a  great  work  of  art — book,  song,  statue,  or 
picture — not  what  is  wrong.     Plenty  of  things 
may  be  wrong,  but  it  is  what  is  right  that  really 
counts.    If  the  critic's  work  is  to  be  worth  while, 
it  is  the  great  element  in  the  thing  that  he  has  to 
seek  and  to  find — to  learn  what  it  is  that  makes 
it  live  and  gives  it  its  appeal,  so  that,  as  Mon- 
taigne said  about  Plutarch,  men  'cannot  do  with- 
out' it;  why  it  is  that  in  a  world,  where  every- 
thing  that   can   be    'scrapped'    is    'scrapped,'    is 
thrown  aside  and  forgotten,  this  thing,  this  book 
or  picture,  refuses  to  be  ignored,  but  captures  and 
charms  men  generations  after  its  maker  has  passed 
away. 

[3°6] 


BOOKS  WE  LIVE  BY 

"With  such  a  quest  a  man  must  not  be  in  a 
hurry,  and  he  does  best  to  linger  in  company  with 
the  great  men  whose  work  he  wishes  to  under- 
stand, and  to  postpone  criticism  to  intimacy.  This 
book  comes  in  the  end  to  be  a  record  of  personal 
acquaintances  and  of  enjoyment.  But  one  is 
never  done  with  knowing  the  greatest  men  or  the 
greatest  works  of  art — they  carry  you  on  and  on, 
and  at  the  last  you  feel  you  are  only  beginning. 
That  is  my  experience.  I  would  not  say  that  I 
know  these  men,  of  whom  I  have  written,  thor- 
oughly— a  man  of  sense  would  hardly  say  that, 
but  I  can  say  that  I  have  enjoyed  my  work,  and 
that,  whatever  other  people  may  find  it,  to  me  it 
has  been  a  delight  and  an  illumination." 

Another  welcome  book  is  E.  V.  Lucas's  Giving 
and  Receiving^  a  new  volume  of  essays.  Since 
the  appearance  of  Roving  East  and  Roving  West^ 
Mr.  Lucas  has  been  looking  back  at  America  from 
London  with  its  fogs  and  (yes !)  its  sunshine.  The 
audience  for  his  new  book  will  include  not  only 
those  readers  he  has  had  for  such  volumes  in  the 
past  but  all  those  personal  friends  that  he  made 
in  a  visit  that  took  him  from  California  to  the 
Battery. 


[307] 


Chapter  XIX 

ROBERT   W.   CHAMBERS    AND   THE   WHOLE 

TRUTH 


ONCE  a  man  came  to  Robert  W.  Chambers 
and  said  words  to  this  effect : 

"You  had  a  great  gift  as  a  literary  artist  and 
you  spoiled  it.  For  some  reason  or  other,  I  don't 
know  what,  but  I  suppose  there  was  more  money 
in  the  other  thing,  you  wrote  down  to  a  big  audi- 
ence. Don't  you  think,  yourself,  that  your  earlier 
work — those  stories  of  Paris  and  those  novels  of 
the  American  revolution — had  something  that  you 
have  sacrificed  in  your  novels  of  our  modern 
day?' 

Mr.  Chambers  listened  politely  and  attentively. 
When  the  man  had  finished,  Chambers  said  to 
him  words  to  this  effect : 

"You  are  mistaken.  I  have  heard  such  talk.  I 
am  not  to  blame  if  some  people  entertain  a  false 
impression.  I  have  sacrificed  nothing,  neither  for 
money  nor  popularity  nor  anything  else. 

"Sir,  I  am  a  story-teller.  I  have  no  other  gift. 
Those  who  imagine  that  they  have  seen  in  my 

[308] 


ROBERT  W.  CHAMBERS 

earlier  work  some  quality  of  literary  distinction 
or  some  unrealised  possibility  as  an  artist  missing 
from  my  later  work,  are  wrong. 

"They  have  read  into  those  stories  their  own 
satisfaction  in  them  and  their  first  delight.  I  was 
new,  then.  In  their  pleasure,  such  as  it  was,  they 
imagined  the  arrival  of  someone  whom  they  styled 
a  great  literary  artist.  They  imagined  it  all;  it 
was  not  I. 

"A  story-teller  I  began,  and  a  story-teller  I  re- 
main. I  do  pride  myself  on  being  a  good  story- 
teller; if  the  verdict  were  overwhelmingly  against 
me  as  a  good  story-teller  that  would  cast  me  down. 
I  have  no  reason  to  believe  that  the  verdict  is 
against  me. 

"And  that  is  the  ground  I  myself  have  stood 
upon.  I  am  not  responsible  for  the  delusion  of 
those  who  put  me  on  some  other,  unearthly  pin- 
nacle, only  to  realise,  as  the  years  went  by,  that  I 
was  not  there  at  all.  But  they  can  find  me  now 
where  they  first  found  me — where  I  rather  suspect 
they  found  me  first  with  unalloyed  delight." 

This  does  not  pretend  to  be  an  actual  transcrip- 
tion of  the  conversation  between  Mr.  Chambers 
and  his  visitor.  I  asked  Mr.  Chambers  recently 
if  he  recalled  this  interview.  He  said  at  this  date 
he  did  not  distinctly  recollect  it  and  he  added : 

"Probably  I  said  what  is  true,  that  I  write  the 
sort  of  stories  which  at  the  moment  it  amuses  me 
to  write;  I  trust  to  luck  that  it  may  also  amuse 
the  public. 

[309] 


WHEN  WINTER  COMES  TO  MAIN  STREET 

"If  a  writer  makes  a  hit  with  a  story  the  public 
wants  him  to  continue  that  sort  of  story.  It  does 
not  like  to  follow  the  moods  of  a  writer  from  gay 
to  frivolous,  from  serious  to  grave,  but  I  have 
always  liked  to  change,  to  experiment — just  as  I 
used  to  like  to  change  my  medium  in  painting, 
aquarelle,  oil,  charcoal,  wash,  etc. 

"Unless  I  had  a  good  time  writing  I'd  do  some- 
thing else.  I  suit  myself  first  of  all  in  choice 
of  subject  and  treatment,  and  leave  the  rest  to 
the  gods." 

As  a  human  creature  Chambers  is  strikingly 
versatile.  It  must  always  be  remembered  that 
he  started  life  as  a  painter.  There  is  a  story  that 
Charles  Dana  Gibson  and  Robert  W.  Chambers 
sent  their  first  offerings  to  Life  at  the  same  time. 
Mr.  Chambers  sent  a  picture  and  Mr.  Gibson  sent 
a  bit  of  writing.  Mr.  Gibson's  offering  was  ac- 
cepted and  Robert  W,  Chambers  received  a 
rejection  slip. 

Not  only  was  he  a  painter  but  Chambers  has 
preserved  his  interest  in  art,  and  is  a  welcome 
visitor  in  the  offices  of  curators  and  directors  of 
museums  because  he  is  one  of  the  few  who  can 
talk  intelligently  about  paintings. 

He  knows  enough  about  Chinese  and  Japanese 
antiques  to  enable  him  to  detect  forgeries.  He 
knows  more  about  armour  than  anyone,  perhaps, 
except  the  man  who  made  the  marvellous  collec- 
tion of  mediaeval  armour  for  the  Metropolitan 
Museum  of  Art,  New  York. 

[310] 


ROBERT  W.  CHAMBERS 

One  of  his  varieties  of  knowledge,  observable 
by  any  reader  of  his  novels,  is  lepidoptery — the 
science  of  butterflies.  He  collects  butterflies  with 
exceeding  ardour.  But  then,  he  is  a  good  deal  of 
an  outdoor  man.  He  knows  horses  and  books; 
he  has  been  known  to  hunt ;  he  has  been  seen  with 
a  fishing  rod  in  his  hand. 

His  knowledge  of  out-of-the-way  places  in  dif- 
ferent parts  of  the  world — Paris,  Petrograd — is 
not  usual. 

Will  you  believe  me  if  I  add  that  he  is  some- 
thing of  an  expert  on  rare  rugs^ 

Of  course,  I  am,  to  some  extent,  taking  Rupert 
Hughes's  word  for  these  accomplishments;  and 
yet  they  are  visible  in  the  written  work  of  Robert 
W.  Chambers  where,  as  a  rule,  they  appear  with- 
out extrusion. 

•  • 

11 

And  here  is  the  newest  Robert  W.  Cham- 
bers novel,  Ens.  Mr.  Chambers's  The  Flaming 
Jewels  a  melodrama  of  the  maddest  character, 
was  published  last  spring.  Eris  is  really  a  story 
of  the  movie  world,  and  reaches  its  most  definite 
conclusion,  possibly,  in  a  passage  where  the  hero 
says  to  Eris  Odell : 

"Whether  they  are  financing  a  picture,  direct- 
ing it,  releasing  it,  exhibiting  it,  or  acting  in  it, 
these  vermin  are  likely  to  do  it  to  death.  Your 
profession  is  crawling  with  them.  It  needs  de- 
lousing." 

[311] 


WHEN  WINTER  COMES  TO  MAIN  STREET 

But  I  am  not  really  anxious,  in  this  chapter,  to 
discuss  the  justice  or  injustice  of  the  view  of 
motion  pictures  thus  forcibly  presented.  I  have 
read  Ens  with  an  interest  sharpened  by  the  fact 
that  its  hero  is  a  writer.  I  seem  to  see  in  what  is 
said  about  and  by  Barry  Annan  expressions  of 
Mr.  Chambers's  own  attitude  of  more  than  casual 
importance. 

Barry  Annan  is  obsessed  with  the  stupidity  of 
the  American  mass  and  more  particularly  with 
the  grossness  (as  he  sees  it)  of  New  York  City. 

"Annan  went  on  with  his  breakfast  leisurely. 
As  he  ate  he  read  over  his  pencilled  manuscript 
and  corrected  it  between  bites  of  muffin  and 
bacon. 

"It  was  laid  out  on  the  lines  of  those  modern 
short  stories  which  had  proven  so  popular  and 
which  had  lifted  Barry  Annan  out  of  the  uniform 
ranks  of  the  unidentified  and  given  him  an  indi- 
vidual and  approving  audience  for  whatever  he 
chose  to  offer  them. 

"Already  there  had  been  lively  competition 
among  periodical  publishers  for  the  work  of  this 
newcomer. 

"His  first  volume  of  short  stories  was  now  in 
preparation.  Repetition  had  stencilled  his  name 
and  his  photograph  upon  the  public  cerebrum. 
Success  had  not  yet  enraged  the  less  successful  in 
the  literary  puddle.  The  frogs  chanted  politely 
in  praise  of  their  own  comrade. 

"The  maiden,  too,  who  sips  the  literary  soup 

[312] 


ROBERT  W.  CHAMBERS 

that  seeps  through  the  pages  of  periodical  publi- 
cations, was  already  requesting  his  autograph. 
Clipping  agencies  began  to  pursue  him ;  film  com- 
panies wasted  his  time  with  glittering  offers  that 
never  materialised.  Annan  was  on  the  way  to 
premature  fame  and  fortune.  And  to  the  after- 
math that  follows  for  all  who  win  too  easily  and 
too  soon. 

"There  is  a  King  Stork  for  all  puddles.  His 
law  is  the  law  of  compensations.  Dame  Nature 
executes  it — alike  on  species  that  swarm  and  on 
individuals  that  ripen  too  quickly. 

"Annan  wrote  very  fast.  There  was  about 
thirty-five  hundred  words  in  the  story  of  Eris. 
He  finished  it  by  halfpast  ten. 

"Re-reading  it,  he  realised  it  had  all  the  con- 
centrated brilliancy  of  an  epigram.  Whether  or 
not  it  would  hold  water  did  not  bother  him.  The 
story  of  Eris  was  Barry  Annan  at  his  easiest  and 
most  persuasive.  There  was  the  characteristic 
and  ungodly  skill  in  it,  the  subtle  partnership  with 
a  mindless  public  that  seduces  to  mental  specula- 
tion; the  reassuring  caress  as  reward  for  intellec- 
tual penetration;  that  inborn  cleverness  that 
makes  the  reader  see,  applaud,  or  pity  him  or  her- 
self in  the  sympathetic  role  of  a  plaything  of 
Chance  and  Fate. 

"And  always  Barry  Annan  left  the  victim  of 
his  tact  and  technique  agreeably  trapped,  suffer- 
ing gratefully,  excited  by  self-approval  to  the 
verge  of  sentimental  tears. 

[313] 


WHEN  WINTER  COMES  TO  MAIN  STREET 

"  'That'll  make  'em  ruffle  their  plumage  and 
gulp  down  a  sob  or  two,'  he  reflected,  his  tongue 
in  his  cheek,  a  little  intoxicated,  as  usual,  by  his 
own  infernal  facility. 

"He  lit  a  cigarette,  shuffled  his  manuscript, 
numbered  the  pages,  and  stuffed  them  into  his 
pocket.     The  damned  thing  was  done." 

And  again: — 

"Considering  her,  now,  a  half-smile  touching 
his  lips,  it  occurred  to  him  that  here,  in  her,  he 
saw  his  audience  in  the  flesh.  This  was  what  his 
written  words  did  to  his  readers.  His  skill  held 
their  attention;  his  persuasive  technique,  unsus- 
pected, led  them  where  he  guided.  His  cleverness 
meddled  with  their  intellectual  emotions.  The 
more  primitive  felt  it  physically,  too. 

"When  he  dismissed  them  at  the  bottom  of  the 
last  page  they  went  away  about  their  myriad 
vocations.  But  his  brand  was  on  their  hearts. 
They  were  his,  these  countless  listeners  whom  he 
had  never  seen — never  would  see. 

"He  checked  his  agreeable  revery.  This 
wouldn't  do.  He  was  becoming  smug.  Reaction 
brought  the  inevitable  note  of  alarm.  Suppose 
his  audience  tired  of  him.  Suppose  he  lost  them. 
Chastened,  he  realised  what  his  audience  meant 
to  him — these  thousands  of  unknown  people 
whose  minds  he  titivated,  whose  reason  he  juggled 
with  and  whose  heart-strings  he  yanked,  his 
tongue  in  his  cheek." 

And  this  further  on: — 

[3' 4] 


ROBERT  W.  CHAMBERS 

"He  went  into  his  room  but  did  not  light  the 
lamp.  For  a  long  while  he  sat  by  the  open  win- 
dow looking  out  into  the  darkness  of  Governor's 
Place. 

"It  probably  was  nothing  he  saw  out  there 
that  brought  to  his  lips  a  slight  recurrent  smile. 

"The  bad  habit  of  working  late  at  night  was 
growing  on  this  young  man.  It  is  a  picturesque 
habit,  and  one  of  the  most  imbecile,  because  sound 
work  is  done  only  with  a  normal  mind. 

"He  made  himself  some  coffee.  A  rush  of 
genius  to  the  head  followed  stimulation.  He  had 
a  grand  time,  revelling  with  pen  and  pad  and 
littering  the  floor  with  inked  sheets  unnumbered 
and  still  wet.  His  was  a  messy  genius.  His  plot- 
logic  held  by  the  grace  of  God  and  a  hair-line. 
Even  the  Leaning  Tower  of  Pisa  can  be  plumbed ; 
and  the  lead  dangled  inside  Achilles's  tendon 
when  one  held  the  string  to  the  medulla  of 
Annan's  stories." 

Our  young  man  is  undergoing  a  variety  of  in- 
teresting changes : 

"Partly  experimental,  partly  sympathetically 
responsive,  always  tenderly  curious,  this  young 
man  drifted  gratefully  through  the  inevitable 
episodes  to  which  all  young  men  are  heir. 

"And  something  in  him  always  transmuted  into 
ultimate  friendship  the  sentimental  chaos,  where 
comedy  and  tragedy  clashed  at  the  crisis. 

"The  result  was  professional  knowledge. 
Which,  however,  he  had  employed  rather  ruth- 

[315] 


WHEN  WINTER  COMES  TO  MAIN  STREET 

lessly  in  his  work.  For  he  resolutely  cut  out  all 
that  had  been  agreeable  to  the  generations  which 
had  thriven  on  the  various  phases  of  virtue  and 
its  rewards.  Beauty  he  replaced  with  ugliness; 
dreary  squalor  was  the  setting  for  crippled  body 
and  deformed  mind.  The  heavy  twilight  of 
Scandinavian  insanity  touched  his  pages  where 
sombre  shapes  born  out  of  Jewish  Russia  moved 
like  anachronisms  through  the  unpolluted  sun- 
shine of  the  New  World. 

"His  were  essays  on  the  enormous  meanness 
of  mankind — meaner  conditions,  mean  minds, 
mean  aspirations,  and  a  little  mean  horizon  to 
encompass  all. 

"Out  of  his  theme,  patiently,  deftly,  ingen- 
iously he  extracted  every  atom  of  that  beauty, 
sanity,  inspired  imagination  which  makes  the  im- 
perfect more  perfect,  creates  better  than  the  ma- 
terials permit,  forces  real  life  actually  to  assume 
and  be  what  the  passionate  desire  for  sanity  and 
beauty  demands." 

There  comes  a  time  when  Eris  Odell  says  to 
Barry  Annan: — 

"  T  could  neither  understand  nor  play  such  a 
character  as  the  woman  in  )'Our  last  book.  .  .  . 
Nor  could  I  ever  believe  in  her.  .  .  .  Nor  in  the 
ugliness  of  her  world — the  world  you  write  about, 
nor  in  the  dreary,  hopeless,  malformed,  starving 
minds  you  analyse.  .  .  .  My  God,  Mr.  Annan — 
are  there  no  wholesome  brains  in  the  world  you 
write  about  ^'  " 

[3.6] 


ROBERT  W.  CHAMBERS 

I  think  these  citations  interesting.  I  do  not  feel 
especially  competent  to  produce  from  them  infer- 
ences regarding  Mr.  Chambers's  own  attitude 
toward  his  work. 

Eris  will  be  published  early  in  1923,  following 
Mr.  Chambers's  The  Talkers. 


Ill 

Mr.  Chambers  was  born  in  Brooklyn,  May  26, 
1865,  the  son  of  William  Chambers  and  Carolyn 
(Boughton)  Chambers.  Walter  Boughton  Cham- 
bers, the  architect,  is  his  brother.  Robert  William 
Chambers  was  a  student  in  the  Julien  Academy  in 
Paris  from  1886  to  1893.  He  married,  on  July 
12,  1898,  Elsa  Vaughn  Moler.  He  first  exhibited 
in  the  Paris  Salon  in  1889;  he  was  an  illustrator 
for  Life,  Truth,  Vogue  and  other  magazines.  His 
first  book,  In  the  Quarter,  was  published  in  1893; 
and  when,  in  the  same  year,  a  collection  of  stories 
of  Paris  called  The  King  in  Yellow  made  its  ap- 
pearance, Robert  W.  Chambers  became  a  name 
of  literary  importance. 

Curiously  enough,  among  the  things  persist- 
ently remembered  about  Mr.  Chambers  to  this  day 
is  a  particular  poem  in  a  book  of  rollicking  verse 
called  With  the  Band,  which  he  published  in 
1895.  This  cherished — by  very  many  people 
scattered  here  and  there — poem  had  to  do  with 
Irishmen  parading.     One  stanza  will  identify  it. 

[317] 


WHEN  WINTER  COMES  TO  MAIN  STREET 

"Ses  Corporal  Madden  to  Private  McFadden: 
'Bedad  yer  a  bad  'un ! 
Now  turn  out  yer  toes ! 
Yer  belt  is  unhookit, 
Yer  cap  is  on  crookit, 
Yer  may  not  be  drunk, 
But,  be  jabers,  ye  look  it! 
Wan-two ! 
Wan-two ! 
Ye  monkey-faced  divil,  I'll  jolly  ye  through! 
Wan-two  I 
Time !     Mark  I 
Ye  march  like  the  aigle  in  Cintheral  Park !'  " 

In  the  course  of  writing  many  books,  Chambers 
has  been  responsible  for  one  or  two  shows.  He 
wrote  for  Ada  Rehan,  The  Witch  of  Ellan- 
goivan^  a  drama  produced  at  Daly's  Theatre. 
His  lole  was  the  basis  of  a  delightful  musical 
comedy  produced  in  New  York  in  1913.  He  is 
a  member  of  the  National  Institute  of  Arts  and 
Letters. 

Books 
by  Robert  W.  Chambers 

IN   THE  QUARTER 

THE  KING  IN  YELLOW 

THE  RED  REPUBLIC 

THE  KING  AND  A  FEW  DUKES 

THE   MAKER  OF    MOONS 

WITH  THE   BAND 

THE  MYSTERY  OF  CHOICE 

[318] 


ROBERT  W.  CHAMBERS 

LORRAINE 

ASHES   OF    EMPIRE 

THE  HAUNTS  OF  MEN 

THE  CAMBRIC  MASK 

OUTSIDERS 

THE    CONSPIRATORS 

CARDIGAN 

THE   MAID-AT-ARMS 

OUTDOOR-LAND 

THE  MAIDS   OF   PARADISE 

ORCHARD-LAND 

FOREST    LAND 

lOLE 

THE    FIGHTING   CHANCE 

MOUNTAIN   LAND 

THE  TRACER  OF  LOST  PERSONS 

THE  TREE  OF  HEAVEN 

THE    FIRING    LINE 

SOME    LADIES    IN    HASTE 

THE  DANGER  MARK 

THE    SPECIAL   MESSENGER 

HIDE  AND  SEEK  IN   FORESTLAND 

THE  GREEN  MOUSE 

AILSA   PAIGE 

BLUE-BIRD    WEATHER 

JAPONETTE 

THE  STREETS  OF  ASCALON 

ADVENTURES  OF  A  MODEST  MAN 

THE  BUSINESS  OF    LIFE 

THE   COMMON    LAW 

THE  GAY  REBELLION 

[319] 


WHEN  WINTER  COMES  TO  MAIN  STREET 

WHO  GOES  THERE*? 

THE  HIDDEN  CHILDREN 

ATHALIE 

POLICE  !  I  I 

THE    GIRL    PHILIPPA 

THE   BARBARIANS 

THE  RESTLESS  SEX 

THE    MOONLIT  WAY 

IN   SECRET 

THE  CRIMSON  TIDE 

THE  SLAYER  OF  SOULS 

THE   LITTLE  RED  FOOT 

THE  FLAMING  JEWEL 

THE  TALKERS 

ERIS 

Sources 

on  Robert  W.  Chambers 

Robert  W.  Chambers:  Article  by  Rupert  Hughes 
in  the  cosmopolitan  magazine  for  June, 
1918. 

The  Men  Who  Make  Our  Novels^  by  George  Gor- 
don.     MOFFAT,   YARD  &  COMPANY. 

Who's  Who  in  America. 
Private  Information. 


[320] 


Chapter  XX 
UNIQUITIES 


EACH  of  these  five  is  a  book  which,  either  from 
its  subject,  its  authorship,  or  its  handling, 
is  sui  generis.  I  call  such  books  "uniquities" ;  it 
sounds  a  little  less  trite  than  saying  they  are 
unique.  I  think  I  will  let  someone  else  speak 
of  these  books.  I  will  look  to  see,  and  will  let 
you  see,  what  others  have  said  about  my 
uniquities. 

ii 

First  we  have  Our  Navy  at  War  by  Josephus 
Daniels.  W.  B.  M'Cormick,  formerly  of  the  edi- 
torial staff  of  the  Army  and  Navy  Journal,  re- 
viewing this  book  for  the  New  York  Herald 
(28  May  1922)  said: 

"Josephus  Daniels  always  was  an  optimist 
about  navy  affairs  while  he  was  Secretary  of  the 
Navy  from  1913  to  1921,  and  now  that  he  has 
told  what  the  navy  did  during  the  world  war  he 
demonstrates  in  his  narrative  that  he  is  a  good 
sport.    For  in  spite  of  the  many  and  bitter  attacks 

[321] 


WHEN  WINTER  COMES  TO  MAIN  STREET 

that  were  made  on  him  in  that  troubled  time  he 
does  not  make  a  single  reference  to  any  of  them, 
nor  does  he  wreak  any  such  revenge  as  he  might 
have  done  through  this  medium.  In  this  respect 
it  may  be  said  that  truly  does  he  live  up  to  the 
description  of  his  character  set  down  in  the  pages 
of  Rear  Admiral  Bradley  A.  Fiske's  autobiog- 
raphy, namely,  that  'Secretary  Daniels  impressed 
me  as  being  a  Christian  gentleman.' 

"In  its  general  outlines  and  in  many  of  its  de- 
tails there  is  little  in  Mr.  Daniels's  story  that  has 
not  been  told  before  in  volumes  devoted  to  single 
phases  of  the  United  States  Navy's  war  opera- 
tions. For  example,  his  chapter  on  the  extraor- 
dinary task  of  laying  the  great  mine  fields,  known 
as  the  North  Sea  barrage,  from  Norway  to  the 
Orkneys,  is  much  more  fully  described  in  the  ac- 
count written  by  Captain  Reginald  R.  Belknap; 
the  story  of  'Sending  Sims  to  Europe'  is  also  more 
extensively  presented  in  that  officer's  book,  The 
Victory  at  Sea^  and  the  same  qualification  can  be 
applied  to  the  chapter  on  the  fighting  of  the  ma- 
rines in  Belleau  Wood  and  elsewhere,  and  the 
work  of  our  destroyers  and  submarines  in  Euro- 
pean waters. 

"But  Mr.  Daniels's  history  has  one  great  merit 
that  these  other  books  lack.  This  is  that  it  tells 
in  its  374  pages  the  complete  story  of  the  work  of 
the  navy  in  the  world  war,  giving  so  many  details 
and  so  much  precise  information  about  officers  and 
their  commands,  ships  of  all  classes  and  just  what 

[322] 


UNIQUITIES 

they  did,  the  valuable  contributions  made  to  the 
winning  of  the  war  by  civilians,  that  it  makes  a 
special  place  for  itself,  a  very  special  place,  in  any 
library  or  shelf  devoted  to  war  books." 


ni 

Leslie  Haden  Guest,  a  surgeon  of  wide  experi- 
ence and  secretary  of  the  British  Labour  Delega- 
tion to  Soviet  Russia,  is  the  author  of  The  Strug- 
gle for  Power  in  Europe  {igiy-2i),  "an  outline 
economic  and  political  survey  of  the  Central 
States  and  Russia,"  of  which  E.  J.  C.  said  in  the 
Boston  Evening  Transcript  (4  March  1922)  : 

"The  author  writes  from  personal  observation 
in  Russia  and  discloses  much  of  the  life  of  the  day 
in  that  country  which  heretofore  has  remained  un- 
disclosed to  the  world.  He  has  met  and  inter- 
viewed Lenine  and  Trotsky  themselves,  shows  us 
the  individuality  of  these  great  Bolshevist  leaders 
and  tells  us  much  of  the  life  of  the  people  and 
of  the  social  conditions  and  tendencies  in  that 
distressful  country. 

"Next  he  crosses  to  Poland,  another  undiscov- 
ered country,  and  shows  us  the  new  Poland,  its 
aims  and  its  struggles  to  emerge  from  a  state  al- 
most of  anarchy  into  one  of  a  rational  democ- 
racy. Very  little  do  we  of  this  country  know  of 
the  new  nation  of  Tcheko-Slovakia,  but  Dr. 
Guest  has  travelled  through  it  also  and  shows  us 
the  two  sections,  one  cultured,  the  other  more 

[323] 


WHEN  WINTER  COMES  TO  MAIN  STREET 

backward,  but  both  working  together  to  form  a 
modern  democratic  nation. 

"The  distressful  condition  of  Austria  and  the 
Austrians  now  suffering  for  the  sins  of  the  Haps- 
burgs,  is  next  shown  forth.  Vienna,  once  the 
capital  of  a  vast  empire  and  the  seat  of  a  great 
imperial  court,  was  suddenly  reduced  to  the  level 
of  the  capital  of  a  small  agricultural,  inland  state, 
a  condition  productive  of  great  suffering.  The 
conditions  here  are  shown  to  differ  much  from 
those  in  other  countries,  for  the  dismemberment 
of  Austria  was  not  brought  about  by  the  act  of 
the  Allies,  but  of  their  own  people.  The  causes 
of  the  suffering  are  fully  explained,  as  are  also 
the  causes  of  similar  conditions  in  Hungary,  in 
Roumania,  in  Bulgaria  and  in  other  countries  af- 
fected by  the  economic  and  political  upheavals 
following  the  war.  That  democracy  in  Europe 
will  finally  triumph  Dr.  Guest  feels  certain  and 
he  gives  lucid  reasons  for  the  faith  that  is  in  him. 
He  gives  a  broadly  intelligent  analysis  of  the 
entire  situation  and  finds  that  the  essential  con- 
ditions of  success  of  a  democracy  are  peace,  edu- 
cation and  adequate  nutrition.  But  he  shows  that 
a  great  problem  exists  which  must  be  worked  out ; 
and  he  shows  how  it  must  be  worked  out.  Dr. 
Guest  is  not  alone  a  thinker,  but  an  observer ;  not 
a  theorist,  but  a  man  of  practical  understanding, 
who  has  studied  a  problem  at  first  hand  and  shows 
it  forth  simply  but  comprehensively  and  with  an 
eye  single  to  the  needs  of  humanity." 

[324] 


UNIQUITIES 

iv 

Of  Herman  Melville:  Mariner  and  Mystic^  by 
Raymond  M.  Weaver,  Carl  Van  Vechten,  writ- 
ing in  the  Literary  Review  of  the  New  York 
Evening  Post  (31  December  1921),  said: 

"No  biography  of  Melville,  no  important  per- 
sonal memorandum  of  the  man,  was  published 
during  his  lifetime.  It  is  only  now,  thirty  years 
after  his  death  and  one  hundred  and  two  years 
after  his  birth,  that  Raymond  M.  Weaver's 
Herman  Melville:  Mariner  and  Mystic  has  ap- 
peared. 

"Under  the  circumstances,  Mr.  Weaver  may  be 
said  to  have  done  his  work  well.  The  weakness 
of  the  book  is  due  to  the  conditions  controlling  its 
creation.  Personal  records  in  any  great  number 
do  not  exist.  There  are,  to  be  sure,  Melville's 
letters  to  Hawthorne,  published  by  Julian  Haw- 
thorne, in  his  Nathaniel  Hawthorne  and  His 
Wife.  There  are  a  few  references  to  Melville  in 
the  diary  of  Mrs.  Hawthorne  and  in  her  letters  to 
her  mother.  There  remain  the  short  account 
given  by  J.  E.  A.  Smith,  a  man  with  no  kind  of 
mental  approach  to  his  hero,  a  few  casual  mem- 
ories of  Richard  Henry  Stoddard,  whose  further 
testimony  would  have  been  invaluable  had  he 
been  inclined  to  be  more  loquacious,  and  a  few 
more  by  Dr.  Titus  Munson  Coan  and  Arthur  Sted- 
man;  but  both  these  men,  perhaps  the  nearest 
to  Melville  in  his  later  years,  were  agreed  that  he 

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WHEN  WINTER  COMES  TO  MAIN  STREET 

ceased  to  be  an  artist  when  he  deserted  the  pre- 
scribed field  of  Typee  and  Omoo^  and  they  har- 
assed his  last  days  in  their  efforts  to  make  him 
perceive  this,  much  as  if  an  admirer  of  Verdi's 
early  manner  had  attempted  to  persuade  the  com- 
poser that  work  on  'Aida'  and  'Otello'  was  a  waste 
of  time  that  might  much  better  be  occupied  in 
creating  another  'Trovatore.'  In  desperation, 
Melville  refused  to  be  lured  into  conversation 
about  the  South  Seas,  and  whenever  the  subject 
was  broached  he  took  refuge  in  quoting  Plato. 
No  very  competent  witnesses,  therefore,  these. 
Aside  from  these  sources,  long  open  to  an  investi- 
gator, Mr.  Weaver  has  had  the  assistance  of  Mr. 
Melville's  granddaughter,  who  was  not  quite  ten 
years  old  when  Melville  died,  but  who  has  in  her 
possession  Mrs.  Melville's  commonplace  book, 
Melville's  diary  of  two  European  excursions,  and 
a  few  letters. 

"Generally,  however,  especially  for  the  most 
important  periods  and  the  most  thrilling  events  in 
Melville's  life,  Mr.  Weaver  has  been  compelled 
to  depend  upon  the  books  the  man  wrote. 

"The  book,  on  the  whole,  is  worthy  of  its  sub- 
ject. It  is  written  with  warmth,  subtlety,  and 
considerable  humour.  Smiles  and  thoughts  lie  hid- 
den within  many  of  its  pregnant  lines.  One  of 
the  biographer's  very  strangest  suggestions  is 
never  made  concrete  at  all,  so  far  as  I  can  discern. 
The  figure  of  the  literary  discoverer  of  the  South 
Seas  emerges  perhaps  a  bit  vaguely,  his  head  in 

[326] 


UNIQUITIES 

the  clouds,  but  there  is  no  reason  to  believe  that 
Melville's  head  was  anywhere  else  when  he  was 
alive.  Hawthorne  is  at  last  described  pretty  ac- 
curateh'  and  not  too  flatteringly.  The  Scarlet 
Letter  was  published  in  1850;  Moby  Dick  in 
1851.  It  is  one  of  the  eternal  ironies  that  the  one 
should  be  world-famous  while  the  other  is  still 
struggling  for  even  national  recognition.  There 
are  long  passages,  well-studied  and  well-written, 
dealing  with  the  whaling  industry  and  the  early 
missionaries,  which  will  be  extremely  helpful  to 
any  one  who  wants  a  bibliographical  background 
for  the  ocean  and  South  Sea  books.  Melville's 
London  notebook  is  published  for  the  first  time 
and  there  is  a  nearly  complete  reprint  of  his  first 
known  published  paper  'Fragments  From  a  Writ- 
ing Desk,'  which  appeared  in  two  numbers  of 
The  Democratic  Press  and  Lansingburgh  Adver- 
tiser in  1839  (not  1849,  as  the  bibliography  er- 
roneously gives  it).  Mr.  Weaver  is  probably 
right  in  ascribing  Melville's  retirement  from  liter- 
ature to  poverty  (it  was  a  fortunate  year  that 
brought  him  as  much  as  $100  in  royalties  and  his 
account  at  Harper's  was  usually  overdrawn),  to 
complete  disillusionment,  which  made  it  impos- 
sible for  him  to  say  more  than  he  had  already 
said,  even  on  the  subject  of  disillusionment,  and 
to  ill-health. 

"It  is  a  pleasure,  moreover,  to  find  that  Mr. 
Weaver  has  a  warm  appreciation  of  Mardi  and 
Pierre,  books  which  have  either  been  neglected  or 

[327] 


WHEN  WINTER  COMES  TO  MAIN  STREET 

fiercely  condemned  since  they  first  appeared,  books 
which  are  no  longer  available  save  in  early  edi- 
tions. They  are  not  equal  to  Moby  Dick,  but  they 
are  infinitely  more  important  and  more  interesting 
than  Typce  and  Omoo,  on  which  the  chief  fame 
of  the  man  rests.  It  is  to  his  credit  that  Mr. 
Weaver  has  perceived  this,  but  a  great  deal  more 
remains  to  be  said  on  the  subject.  Mardi,  Moby 
Dick,  and  Pierre,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  form  a  kind 
of  tragic  trinity:  Mardi  is  a  tragedy  of  the  intel- 
lect; Moby  Dick,  a  tragedy  of  the  spirit,  and 
Pierre  a  tragedy  of  the  flesh.  Mardi  is  a  tragedy 
of  heaven,  Moby  Dick  a  tragedy  of  hell,  and 
Pierre  a  tragedy  of  the  world  we  live  in. 

"Considering  the  difBculties  in  his  path,  it  may 
be  said  that  Mr.  Weaver  has  solved  his  problem 
successfully.  The  faults  of  the  book,  to  a  large 
extent,  as  I  have  already  pointed  out,  are  not  the 
faults  of  the  author,  but  the  faults  of  conditions 
circumscribing  his  work.  At  any  rate,  it  can  no 
longer  be  said  that  no  biography  exists  of  the 
most  brilliant  figure  in  the  history  of  our  letters, 
the  author  of  a  book  which  far  surpasses  every 
other  work  created  by  an  American  from  The  Scar- 
let Letter  to  The  Golden  Bowl.  For  Moby  Dick 
stands  with  the  great  classics  of  all  times,  with 
the  tragedies  of  the  Greeks,  with  Don  Quixote, 
with  Dante's  Inferno  and  with  Shakespeare's 
Hamlet" 


[328] 


UNIQUITIES 


A  man  who  is  certainly  an  authority  on  naval 
subjects  tells  me  that  The  Grand  Fleet  by  Vis- 
count Jellicoe  of  Scapa  is  the  masterpiece  of  the 
great  war.  He  does  not  mean,  of  course,  in  a 
literary  sense;  but  he  does  most  emphatically 
mean  in  every  other  sense.  I  quote  from  the  re- 
view by  P.  L.  J.,  of  Admiral  Jellicoe's  second 
book,  The  Crisis  of  the  Naval  War.  The  review 
appeared  in  that  valuable  Annapolis  publication, 
the  Proceedings  of  the  United  States  Naval  Insti- 
tute for  April,  1921 : 

"This  interesting  book  is  the  complement  of  his 
first  volume,  The  Grand  Fleet.,  1914-16.  Admiral 
Jellicoe,  the  one  man  who  was  best  situated  to 
know,  now  draws  aside  the  curtains  and  reveals 
to  us  the  efforts  made  by  the  Admiralty  to  over- 
come the  threat  made  by  the  German  submarine 
campaign.  The  account  not  only  deals  with  the 
origin  ashore  of  the  defence  and  offence  against 
submarines,  but  follows  to  sea  the  measures 
adopted  where  their  application  and  results  are 
shown. 

"The  first  chapter  deals  at  length  with  the 
changes  made  in  the  admiralty  that  the  organisa- 
tion might  be  logical  and  smooth  working  to  avoid 
conflict  of  authority,  to  have  no  necessary  service 
neglected,  to  provide  the  necessary  corps  of  inves- 
tigators of  new  devices,  and  above  all  to  free  the 
first  Sea  Lord  and  his  assistants  of  a  mass  of  de- 

[329] 


WHEN  WINTER  COMES  TO  MAIN  STREET 

tail  that  their  efforts  might  be  concentrated  on 
the  larger  questions. 

"The  appendices  are  of  value  and  interesting 
because  they  show  the  organisation  at  different 
periods  and  emphasise  the  fact  that  the  Naval 
Staff  at  the  end  of  the  war  was  the  result  of  trial 
and  error,  natural  growth,  and  at  least  one  radical 
change  adopted  during  the  war. 

"Chapters  II  and  III  deal  with  the  Submarine 
Campaign  in  1917  and  the  measures  adopted  to 
win  success.  The  gradual  naval  control  of  all 
merchant  shipping  with  its  attendant  difficulties 
is  clearly  shown.  The  tremendous  labour  involved 
in  putting  into  operation  new  measures;  the  un- 
remitting search  for  and  development  of  new 
antisubmarine  devices  is  revealed,  and  above  all 
the  length  of  time  necessary  to  put  into  operation 
any  new  device,  and  this  when  time  is  the  most 
precious  element,  is  pointed  out. 

"That  a  campaign  against  the  enemy  must  be 
waged  with  every  means  at  hand;  that  new  weap- 
ons must  be  continually  sought;  that  no  'cure-all' 
by  which  the  enemy  may  be  defeated  without 
fighting  can  be  expected;  that  during  war  is  the 
poorest  time  to  provide  the  material  which  should 
be  provided  during  peace,  the  Admiral  shows  in  a 
manner  not  to  be  gainsaid. 

"Chapters  IV  and  V  deal  with  the  testing,  intro- 
duction, and  gradual  growth  of  the  convoy  sys- 
tem. It  is  shown  how  the  introduction  of  this 
system  was  delayed  by  lack  of  vessels  to  perform 

[330] 


UNIQUITIES 

escort  duty  and  why  when  finally  adopted  it  was 
so  successful  because  it  was  not  only  defensive  but 
offensive  in  that  it  meant  a  fight  for  a  submarine 
to  attack  a  vessel  under  convoy. 

"Chapter  VI  is  devoted  to  the  entry  of  the 
United  States.  The  accurate  estimate  of  our 
naval  strength  by  both  the  enemy  and  the  allies, 
and  our  inability  upon  the  declaration  of  war  to 
lend  any  great  assistance  are  shown — and  this  at 
the  most  critical  period  for  the  Allies — a  period 
when  the  German  submarine  campaign  was  at  its 
height,  when  the  tonnage  lost  monthly  by  the 
Allies  was  far  in  excess  of  what  can  be  replaced — 
when  the  destruction  of  merchant  shipping  if  con- 
tinued at  the  then  present  rate  would  in  a  few 
months  mean  the  defeat  of  the  Allies." 


VI 

I  will  give  you  what  Admiral  Caspar  F.  Good- 
rich said  in  the  Weekly  Review  (30  April  1921 ; 
The  Weekly  Review  has  since  been  combined 
with  The  Independent)  regarding  A  History  of 
Sea  Poiver^  by  William  O.  Stevens  and  Allan 
Westcott : 

"Two  professors  at  the  Naval  Academy,  the 
one  a  historian,  the  other  a  close  student  of  Ma- 
han,  have  written  a  noteworthy  volume  in  their 
History  of  Sea  Power,  published  in  excellent 
form,  generously  supplied  with  maps,  illustra- 
tions, and  index.     The  title  suggests  Mahan's 

[331] 


WHEN  WINTER  COMES  TO  MAIN  STREET 

classic  which  is  largely  followed  in  plan  and  treat- 
ment. It  will  be  remembered  that  his  writings 
covered  in  detail  only  the  years  from  1660  to 
1815.  While  not  neglecting  this  period,  this 
book  is  particularly  valuable  for  events  not  within 
its  self-assigned  limits.  Practically  it  is  a  his- 
tory of  naval  warfare  from  ancient  times  to  the 
present  day.  Each  chapter  deals  briefly,  but  ably, 
with  one  epoch  and  closes  with  an  appropriate 
bibliography  for  those  who  care  to  go  more  fully 
into  the  question;  a  commendable  feature.  The 
last  chapter,  'Conclusions,'  deserves  especial  at- 
tention. Naturally,  considerable  space  is  de- 
voted to  the  story  and  analysis  of  Jellicoe's 
fight.  Few  will  disagree  with  the  verdict  of  the 
authors : 

"  'It  is  no  reflection  on  the  personal  courage  of 
the  Commander-in-Chief  that  he  should  be  moved 
by  the  consideration  of  saving  his  ships.  The  ex- 
istence of  the  Grand  Fleet  was,  of  course,  essential 
to  the  Allied  cause,  and  there  was  a  heavy  weight 
of  responsibility  hanging  on  its  use.  But  again 
it  is  a  matter  of  naval  doctrine.  Did  the  British 
fleet  exist  merely  to  maintain  a  numerical  prepon- 
derance over  its  enemy  or  to  crush  that  enemy — 
whatever  the  cost?  If  the  Battle  of  Jutland  re- 
ceives the  stamp  of  approval  as  the  best  that 
could  have  been  done,  then  the  British  or  the 
American  officer  of  the  future  will  know  that  he 
is  expected  primarily  to  "play  safe."  But  he  will 
never  tread  the  path  of  Blake,  Hawke,  or  Nelson, 

[332] 


UNIQUITIES 

the  men  who  made  the  traditions  of  the  Service 
and  forged  the  anchors  of  the  British  Empire.' 

"One  factor  in  the  success  of  the  antisubmarine 
campaign  is  not  mentioned,  important  as  it  proved 
to  be.  This  was  the  policy  adopted  by  the  Allies 
of  not  giving  out  the  news  that  any  U-boat  was 
captured  or  otherwise  accounted  for.  Confronted 
with  this  appalling  veil  of  mystery  the  morale  of 
the  German  submarine  crews  became  seriously  af- 
fected; volunteering  for  this  service  gradually 
ceased;  arbitrary  detail  grew  necessary;  greatly 
lessened  efficiency  resulted. 

"The  authors  are  to  be  congratulated  on  pro- 
ducing a  volume  which  should  be  in  the  hands  of 
all  naval  officers  of  the  coming  generation ;  on  the 
shelves  of  all  who  take  interest  in  the  development 
of  history;  and  of  statesmen  upon  whom  may 
eventually  rest  the  responsibility  of  heeding  or 
not  heeding  the  teachings  of  Mahan  as  here  sym- 
pathetically and  cleverly  brought  up  to  date. 


j> 


[333] 


Chapter  XXI 

THE    CONFESSIONS    OF    A    WELL-MEA>    NG 
YOUNG  MAN,  STEPHEN  McKENNA 


IN  a  sense,  all  of  Stephen  McKenna's  writing 
has  been  a  confession.  More  than  any  other 
novelist  now  actively  at  work,  this  young  man 
bases  fiction  on  biographical  and  autobiograj..iical 
material;  and  when  he  sits  down  deliberate V  to 
write  reminiscences,  such  as  While  I  Remember^ 
the  result  is  merely  that,  in  addition  to  confessing 
himself,  he  confesses  others. 

He  has  probably  had  more  opportunity  of 
knowing  the  social  and  political  life  of  London 
from  the  inside  than  most  novelists  of  his  time. 
In  While  I  Remember  he  gives  his  recollect'ons, 
while  his  memory  is  still  fresh  enough  to  be  vivid, 
of  a  generation  that  closed,  for  literary  if  not  for 
political  purposes,  with  the  Peace  Conference. 
There  is  a  power  of  wit  and  mordant  humour  and 
a  sufficiency  of  descriptive  power  and  insight  into 
human  character  in  all  his  work. 

While  I  Remember  is  actually  a  gallery  of  pic- 
tures taken  from  the  life  and  executed  with  the 

[334] 


STEPHEN   MCKENKA 


[335] 


STEPHEN  McKENNA 

technique  of  youth  by  a  man  still  young — pictures 
of  public  school  and  university  life,  of  social  Lon- 
don from  the  death  of  King  Edward  to  the  Armis- 
tice, of  domestic  and  foreign  politics  of  the  period, 
of  the  public  services  of  Great  Britain  at  home 
and  abroad.  Though  all  these  are  within  the 
circle  of  Mr.  McKenna's  narrative,  literary  Lon- 
don— the  London  that  is  more  talked  about  than 
seen — is  the  core  of  his  story. 


11 

Mr.  McKenna's  latest  novel,  The  Confessions 
of  a  W ell-Meaning  Woman,  is  a  series  of  mono- 
logues addressed  by  one  Lady  Ann  Spenworth  to 
"a  friend  of  proved  discretion."  I  quote  from  the 
London  Times  of  April  6,  1922:  "In  the  course 
of  them  Lady  Ann  Spenworth  reveals  to  us  the 
difnculties  besetting  a  lady  of  rank.  She  is  com- 
pelled to  live  in  a  house  in  Mount  street — for  how 
could  she  ask  'The  Princess'  to  visit  her  in  Bays- 
water? — and  her  income  of  a  few  thousands, 
hardly  supplemented  by  her  husband's  director- 
ships, is  depleted  by  the  disbursements  needed  to 
keep  the  name  of  her  only  son  out  of  the  news- 
papers while  she  is  obtaining  for  him  the  wife  and 
the  salary  suited  to  his  requirements  and  capac- 
ities. Mr.  Stephen  McKenna  provides  us  with 
the  same  kind  of  exasperating  entertainment  that 
we  get  at  games  from  watching  a  skilful  and  un- 
scrupulous veteran.    Her  deftness  in  taking  a  step 

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WHEN  WINTER  COMES  TO  MAIN  STREET 

or  two  forward  in  the  centre  and  so  putting  the 
fast  wing  off  side;  her  air  of  sporting  acquiescence 
touched  with  astonishment  when  a  penalty  is 
given  against  her  for  obstruction;  her  resolution 
in  jumping  in  to  hit  a  young  bowler  off  his  length; 
the  trouble  she  has  with  her  shoe-lace  when  her 
opponent  is  nervous;  the  suddenness  with  which 
every  now  and  again  her  usually  deliberate  second 
service  will  follow  her  first;  the  slight  pucker  in 
her  eyebrows  when  she  picks  up  a  hand  full  of 
spades;  the  pluck  with  which  she  throws  herself 
on  the  ball  when  there  is  nothing  else  for  it;  her 
dignified  bonhomie  in  the  dressing  room !  We  all 
know  Lady  Ann  and  her  tricks,  but  nothing  can 
be  proved  against  her  and  she  continues  to  play 
for  the  best  clubs. 

"In  this  story  Lady  Ann  is  playing  the  social 
game,  and  it  is  a  tribute  to  the  skill  of  Mr.  Mc- 
Kenna  that  at  the  end  we  hope  that  the  Princess 
will  be  sufficiently  curious  about  her  new  'frame 
and  setting'  to  continue  her  visits.  .  .  .  We  have 
used  the  word  'story'  because  Lady  Ann  reports 
her  machinations  while  they  are  in  progress  and 
we  are  a  little  nervous  about  the  issue.  Her  main 
service,  however,  lies  in  the  pictures  she  draws  of 
her  own  highly  placed  relatives  and  of  a  number 
of  people  who  at  house  parties  and  elsewhere  may 
help  ladies  of  title  to  make  both  ends  meet.  Chief 
among  them  is  her  son  Will,  who  even  as  seen 
through  her  partial  eyes,  appears  a  very  dishonest, 
paltry  boy.    Her  blind  devotion  to  him  humanises 

[338] 


STEPHEN  McKENNA 

both  her  shrewdness  and  her  selfishness.  It  is  for 
his  sake,  that  she  separates  her  niece  from  the  fine 
3^oung  soldier  she  is  in  love  with  and  that  she  al- 
most succeeds  in  providing  the  King's  Proctor 
with  the  materials  for  an  intervention  that  would 
secure  to  him  the  estates  and  title  of  his  fox-hunt- 
ing uncle.  There  is  always  a  plain  tale  to  put  her 
down  and  always  the  friend  of  proved  discretion 
is  left  with  the  impression  that  the  tale  is  the  in- 
vention of  malice;  at  least  we  suppose  she  must 
be,  for  Lady  Ann  is  allowed  by  people  to  whom 
she  has  done  one  injury  to  remain  in  a  position 
to  do  them  another.  The  difficult  medium  em- 
ployed by  Mr.  McKenna  entitles  him,  however,  to 
count  on  the  co-operation  of  the  reader;  and  it  is 
to  be  accorded  the  more  readily  that  to  it  we  owe 
the  felicity  of  having  her  own  account  of  the 
steps  she  took  to  prevent  an  attractive  but  expen- 
sive widow  from  running  away  with  her  husband, 
and  of  the  party  which  she  gave,  according  to  plan, 
to  the  Princess  and,  not  according  to  plan,  to  other 
guests  let  loose  on  her  by  her  scapegrace  brother- 
in-law." 

•  •  • 

in 

Stephen  McKenna,  the  author  of  Sonia,  not  to 
be  confused  with  Stephen  McKenna,  the  transla- 
tor of  Poltinus,  belongs  to  the  Protestant  branch 
of  that  royal  Catholic  sept  which  has  had  its  home 
in  the  County  Monagham  since  the  dawn  of  Irish 
history.     Some  members,   even,   of  this   branch 

[339] 


WHEN  WINTER  COMES  TO  MAIN  STREET 

have  reverted  to  the  old  faith  since  the  date 
of  Stephen  McKenna's  birth  in  the  year.  1888  in 
London. 

He  was  a  scholar  of  Westminster  and  an  exhi- 
bitioner of  Christ  Church,  Oxford.  After  he  had 
taken  his  degree,  his  father,  Leopold  McKenna, 
an  elder  brother  of  the  Right  Honourable  Regi- 
nald McKenna,  K.  C,  the  last  Liberal  Chancellor 
of  the  British  Exchequer,  made  it  possible  for  him 
to  travel  desultorily  and  to  try  his  luck  in  the 
great  literary  adventure. 

On  the  outbreak  of  the  war,  as  his  health,  which 
is  delicate  to  the  point  of  frailness,  debarred  him 
from  entering  the  army,  Stephen  McKenna  first 
volunteered  for  service  at  his  old  school,  and,  af- 
ter a  year,  joined  the  staff  of  the  War  Trade  In- 
telligence Department,  where  he  did  valuable  war 
work  for  three  and  a  half  years.  He  represented 
his  department  on  the  Right  Honourable  A.  J. 
Balfour's  mission  in  1917,  to  the  United  States, 
where  he  enjoyed  himself  thoroughly  and  made 
himself  very  popular;  and  he  did  not  sever  his  con- 
nection with  the  government  service  until  Febru- 
ary, 1919,  four  months  after  the  conclusion  of  the 
armistice. 

Stephen  McKenna's  first  three  novels — The 
Reluctant  Lover,  Sheila  Intervenes  and  The  Sixth 
Sense — were  written  and  published  before  their 
author  was  27  years  of  age  I  But  Sonia,  the  story 
that  made  him  widely  known,  was  written  entirely 
during  the  period  of  his  activities  on  the  staff  of 

[340] 


STEPHEN  McKENNA 

Westminster  School  and  at  the  War  Trade  Intel- 
ligence Department.  The  book  won  the  public 
favour  more  quickly  than  perhaps  any  other  novel 
that  has  appeared  in  our  time. 

The  success  of  Sonia  was  largely  due  to  its  de- 
scription in  a  facile,  popular  and  yet  eminently 
chaste  and  polished  style,  of  the  social  and  politi- 
cal situation  in  England  for  a  half  generation  be- 
fore and  during  the  early  stages  of  the  war.  This 
description  Stephen  McKenna  was  peculiarly 
well-equipped  to  produce,  not  only  as  the  near 
relative  of  a  prominent  cabinet  minister,  but  also 
as  an  assiduous  frequenter  of  the  leading  Liberal 
centre,  the  Reform  Club,  on  the  committee  of 
which  he  had  sat,  despite  his  youthful  years,  since 
1915.  The  political  interest,  indeed,  is  revealed 
in  the  subtitle,  Between  Two  Worlds^  which  was 
originally  intended  for  the  actual  title. 

McKenna's  next  book,  Ninety-Six  Hours^ 
Leave^  appealed  to  the  reader's  gayer  moods  and 
Midas  and  Son^  with  its  tragic  history  of  an  Anglo- 
American  multimillionaire,  to  the  reader  in  seri- 
ous temper. 

In  spite  of  certain  blemishes  due  to  Mr.  Mc- 
Kenna's unfamiliarity  with  American  life,  I 
should  say  that  Midas  and  Son  is  probably  his 
ablest  work  so  far.  I  think  it  surpasses  even 
Sonia.  Mr.  McKenna  returned  to  Sonia  in  his 
novel,  Sonia  Married.  His  work  after  that  was  a 
trilogy  called  The  Sensatio7ialists,  three  brilliant 
studies  of  modern  London  in  the  form  of  succes- 

[341] 


WHEN  WINTER  COMES  TO  MAIN  STREET 

sive  novels  called  Lady  Lilith,  The  Education  of 
Eric  Lane  and  The  Secret  Victory. 


IV 

Writing  from  ii,  Stone  Buildings,  Lincoln's 
Inn,  London,  in  1920,  Mr.  McKenna  had  this  to 
say  about  his  trilogy: 

'"Lady  Lilith  is  the  first  volume  of  a  trilogy 
called  The  Sensationalists,  three  books  giving  the 
history  for  a  few  years  before  the  war,  during  and 
immediately  after  the  war,  of  a  group  of  sensa- 
tion-mongers, emotion-hunters  or  whatever  you 
like  to  call  them,  whose  principle  and  practice  it 
was  to  startle  the  world  by  the  extravagance  of 
their  behaviour,  speech,  dress  and  thought  and, 
in  the  other  sense  of  the  word,  sensationalism,  to 
live  on  the  excitement  of  new  experiences.  Such 
people  have  always  existed  and  always  will  exist, 
receiving  perhaps  undue  attention  from  the  world 
that  they  set  out  to  astonish.  You,  I  am  sure, 
have  them  in  America,  as  we  have  them  here,  and 
in  the  luxurious  and  idle  years  before  the  war  they 
had  incomparable  scope  for  their  search  for  nov- 
elty and  their  quest  for  emotion.  Some  of  the 
characters  in  Lady  Lilith  have  already  been  seen 
hovering  in  the  background  of  Sonia,  Midas  and 
Son  and  Sonia  Married,  though  the  principal 
characters  in  Lady  Lilith  have  not  before  been 
painted  at  full  length  or  in  great  detail ;  and  these 


STEPHEN  McKENNA 

principal  characters  will  be  found  in  all  three 
books  of  the  trilogy. 

''Lady  Lilith,  of  course,  takes  its  title  from  the 
Talmud,  according  to  which  Lilith  was  Adam's 
first  wife;  and  as  mankind  did  not  taste  of  the 
Tree  of  Knowledge  or  of  death  until  Eve  came  to 
trouble  the  Garden  of  Eden,  Lilith  belongs  to  a 
time  in  which  there  was  neither  death  nor  knowl- 
edge of  good  or  evil  in  the  world.  She  is  immor- 
tal, unaging  and  non-moral ;  her  name  is  given  by 
Valentine  Arden,  the  young  novelist  who  appears 
in  Sonia  and  elsewhere,  to  Lady  Barbara  Neave, 
the  principal  character  in  Lady  Lilith  and  one 
of  the  principal  characters  in  the  two  succeeding 
books." 


In  person,  Stephen  McKenna  is  tall,  with  a 
slender  figure,  Irish  blue  eyes,  fair  hair,  regular 
features  and  a  Dante  profile.  He  has  an  engaging 
and  very  courteous  address,  a  sympathetic  man- 
ner, a  ready  but  always  urbane  wit  and  great 
conversational  charm.  He  possesses  the  rare  ac- 
complishment of  "talking  like  a  book."  His  in- 
timates are  legion;  and,  apart  from  these,  he 
knows  everyone  who  "counts"  in  London  society. 
He  is  known  never  to  lose  his  temper;  and  it  is 
doubtful  whether  he  has  ever  had  cause  to  lose  it. 

His  one  recreation  is  the  Opera ;  and  during  the 
London  season  his  delightful  chambers  in  Lin- 

[343] 


WHEN  WINTER  COMES  TO  MAIN  STREET 

coin's  Inn  are  the  almost  nightly  scene  of  parties 
collected  then  and  there  from  the  opera  house. 

vi 

A  sample  of  The  Confessions  of  a  Well-Mean- 
ing Woman: 

"Lady  Ann  (to  a  friend  of  proved  discretion^  '. 
You  have  toiled  all  the  way  here  again"?  Do  you 
know,  I  feel  I  am  only  beginning  to  find  out  who 
my  true  friends  are*?  I  am  much,  much  better. 
.  .  .  On  Friday  I  am  to  be  allowed  on  to  the  sofa 
and  by  the  end  of  next  week  Dr.  Richardson  prom- 
ises to  let  me  go  back  to  Mount  Street.  Of  course 
I  should  have  liked  the  operation  to  take  place 
there — it  is  one's  frame  and  setting,  but,  truly 
honestly,  Arthur  and  I  have  not  been  in  a  position 
to  have  any  painting  or  papering  done  for  so  long. 
.  .  .  The  surgeon  insisted  on  a  nursing  home. 
Apparatus  and  so  on  and  so  forth.  .  .  .  Quite 
between  ourselves  I  fancy  that  they  make  a  very 
good  thing  out  of  these  homes;  but  I  am  so  thank- 
ful to  be  well  again  that  I  would  put  up  with  al- 
most any  imposition.   .   .   . 

"Everything  went  off  too  wonderfully.  Per- 
haps you  have  seen  my  brother  Brackenbury?  Or 
Ruth?  Ah,  I  am  sorry;  I  should  have  been  vastly 
entertained  to  hear  what  they  were  saying,  what 
they  dared  say.  Ruth  did  indeed  offer  to  pay  the 
expenses  of  the  operation — the  belated  prick  of 
conscience  I — and  it  was  on  the  tip  of  my  tongue 
to  say  we  are  not  yet  dependent  on  her  spasmodic 

[344] 


STEPHEN  McKENNA 

charity.  Also,  that  I  can  keep  my  lips  closed 
about  Brackenbury  without  expecting  a — tip*? 
But  they  know  I  can't  afford  to  refuse  £500.  .  .  . 
If  they,  if  everybody  would  only  leave  one  alone  I 
Spied  on,  whispered  about.   .   .   . 

"The  papers  made  such  an  absurd  stir  I  If  you 
are  known  by  name  as  occupying  any  little  niche, 
the  world  waits  gaping  below.  I  suppose  I  ought 
to  be  flattered,  but  for  days  there  were  callers,  let- 
ters, telephone-messages.  Like  Royalty  in  ex- 
tremis.  .  .  .  And  I  never  pretended  that  the  oper- 
ation was  in  any  sense  critical.  .  .  . 

"Do  you  know,  beyond  saying  that,  I  would 
much  rather  not  talk  about  it^  This  very  modern 
frankness.  .  .  .  Not  you,  of  course!  But  when 
a  man  like  my  brother-in-law  Spenworth  strides 
in  here  a  few  hours  before  the  anaesthetic  is  ad- 
ministered and  says  'What  is  the  matter  with 
you*?  Much  ado  about  nothing,  I  call  it.'  .  .  . 
That  from  Arthur's  brother  to  Arthur's  wife, 
when,  for  all  he  knew,  he  might  never  see  her  alive 
again.  ...  I  prefer  just  to  say  that  everything 
went  off  most  satisfactorily  and  that  I  hope  now 
to  be  better  than  I  have  been  for  years.  .  .  ." 

Books 

by  Stephen  McKenna 

THE  RELUCTANT  LOVER 
SHEILA  INTERVENES 
THE  SIXTH  SENSE 

[345] 


WHEN  WINTER  COMES  TO  MAIN  STREET 

sonia:  between  two  worlds 

NINETY-SIX   hours'    LEAVE 

MIDAS  AND  SON 

SONIA   MARRIED 

LADY   LILITH 

THE   EDUCATION    OF    ERIC    LANE 

THE  SECRET  VICTORY 

WHILE   I    REMEMBER 

THE  CONFESSIONS  OF  A  WELL-MEANING  WOMAN 


Sources 
on  Stephen  McKenna 


Who's  Who  [In  England]. 
Private  Information. 


[346] 


Chapter  XXII 
POETS  AND  PLAYWRIGHTS 


I  HAVE  to  tell  about  a  number  of  poets  and, 
regarding  poets,  I  agree  with  a  very  clever 
woman  I  know  who  declares  that  poetry  is  the 
most  personal  of  the  arts  and  who  further  says 
that  it  is  manifestly  inadequate  to  talk  about  a 
poet's  work  without  giving  a  sample  of  his  poetry. 
So,  generally,  I  shall  quote  one  of  the  shorter 
poems  or  a  passage  from  a  longer  poem. 

John  Dos  Passos,  known  for  Three  Soldiers 
and  for  Rosinante  to  the  Road  Again,  will  be  still 
more  variously  known  to  those  who  read  his  book 
of  verse,  A  Pushcart  at  the  Curb.  This  book  bears 
a  relation  to  Rosinante,  the  contents  grouping 
themselves  under  these  general  headings: 

Winter  in  Castile 

Nights  by  Bassano 

Translations  from  the  Spanish  of  Antonio  Machado 

Vagones  de  Tercera 

Quai  de  la  Tournelle 

Of  Foreign   Travel 

Phases  of  the  Moon 


[347] 


WHEN  WINTER  COMES  TO  MAIN  STREET 

I  will  select  for  quotation  the  sixth  or  final 
poem  dedicated  to  A.  K.  McC,  from  the  section 
entitled  "Quai  de  la  Tournelle," 

This  is  a  garden 

where  through  the  russet  mist  of  clustered  trees 

and  strewn  November  leaves, 

they  crunch   with   vainglorious   heels 

of  ancient  vermilion 

the  dry  dead  of  spent  summer's  greens, 

and  stalk  with   mincing   sceptic  steps, 

and  sound  of  snuffboxes  snapping 

to  the  capping  of  an  epigram, 

in  fluffy  attar-scented  wigs  .  .  . 

the  exquisite  Augustans. 

Christopher  Morley  is  too  well-known  as  a  poet 
to  require  any  explicit  account  in  this  place.  I 
shall  remind  you  of  the  pleasure  of  reading  him 
by  quoting  the  "Song  For  a  Little  House"  from 
his  book,  The  Rocking  Horse,  and  also  a  short 
verse   from  his  Translations  from  the  Chinese. 

I'm  glad  our  house  is  a  little  house, 

Not  too  tall  nor  too  wide : 
I'm  glad  the  hovering  butterflies 

Feel  free  to  come  inside. 

Our  little  house  is  a  friendly  house, 

It  is  not  shy  or  vain; 
It  gossips  with  the  talking  trees, 

And  makes   friends  with  the   rain. 

And  quick  leaves  cast  a  shimmer  of  green, 

Against  our  whited  walls, 
And  in  the  phlox,  the  courteous  bees, 

Are  paying  duty  calls. 

[348] 


POETS  AND  PLAYWRIGHTS 

But  there  is  a  different  temper — or,  if  you  like, 
tempering — to  the  verse  in  Translations  from  the 
Chinese.    I  quote  "A  National  Frailty": 

The  American  people 

Were  put  into  the  world 

To  assist  foreign  lecturers. 

When  I  visited  them 

They  filled  crowded  halls 

To  hear  me  tell  them  Great  Truths 

Which  they  might  as  well  have  read 

In  their  own  prophet  Thoreau. 

They  paid  me,  for  this, 

Three  hundred  dollars  a  night, 

And  ten  of  their  mandarins 

Invited  me  to  visit  at  Newport. 

My  agent  told  me 

If  I  would  wear  Chinese  costume  on  the  platform 

It  would  be  five  hundred. 


In  speaking  of  the  late  Joyce  Kilmer,  the  temp- 
tation is  inescapable  to  quote  his  "Trees";  after 
all,  it  is  his  best  known  and  best  loved  poem — in 
certain  moments  it  is  his  best  poem !  But  instead, 
I  will  desert  his  volume.  Trees  and  Other  Foems^ 
and  from  his  other  book.  Main  Street  and  Other 
Poems,  I  will  quote  the  first  two  stanzas  of 
Kilmer's  "Houses" — a  poem  written  for  his 
wife: 

When  you  shall  die  and  to  the  sky 

Serenely,   delicately  go, 
Saint  Peter,  when  he  sees  you  there, 

Will  clash  his  keys  and  say: 

[349] 


WHEN  WINTER  COMES  TO  MAIN  STREET 

"Now  talk  to  her,   Sir  Christopher! 

And  hurry,  Michelangelo ! 
She  wants  to  play  at  building, 

And  you've  got  to  help  her  play!" 

Every  architect  will  help  erect 

A  palace  on  a  lawn  of  cloud, 
With  rainbow  beams  and  a  sunset  roof, 

And  a  level  star-tiled  floor ; 
And  at  your  will  you  may  use  the  skill 

Of  this  gay  angelic  crowd. 
When  a  house  is  made  you  will  throw  it  down, 

And  they'll  build  you  twenty  more. 

Mrs.  Kilmer  is  the  author  of  two  volumes  of 
verse  which  have  sold  rather  more  than  John 
Masefield  usually  sells — at  least,  until  the  pub- 
lication of  Reynard  the  Fox.  Candles  That 
Burn  created  her  audience  and  Vigils  has  been 
that  audience's  renewed  delight.  From  Vigils  I 
take  the  poem  "The  Touch  of  Tears."  In  it 
"Michael"  is,  of  course,  her  own  son: 

Michael  walks  in  autumn  leaves, 

Rustling  leaves  and  fading  grasses, 
And   his   little   music-box 

Tinkles  faintly  as  he  passes. 
It's  a  gay  and  jaunty  tune 

If  the  hands  that  play  were  clever: 
Michael  plays  it  like  a  dirge. 

Moaning  on  and  on  forever. 

While  his  happy  eyes  grow  big. 
Big  and  innocent  and  soulful, 

Wistful,   halting  little  notes 
Rise,   unutterably  doleful, 

[350] 


POETS  AND  PLAYWRIGHTS 

Telling  of  all  childish  griefs — 

Baffled  babies  sob  forsaken, 
Birds  fly  off  and  bubbles  burst, 

Kittens  sleep  and  will  not  waken. 

Michael,  it's  the  touch  of  tears. 

Though  you  sing  for  very  gladness, 
Others  will  not  see  your  mirth ; 

They  will  mourn  your  fancied  sadness. 
Though  you  laugh  at  them  in  scorn, 

Show  your  happy  heart  for  token, 
Michael,  you'll  protest  in  vain — 

They  will  swear  your  heart  is  broken! 

I  think  I  have  said  elsewhere  that  J.  C.  Squire 
prefers  his  serious  poems  to  those  parodies  of 
which  he  is  such  an  admitted  master.  It  seems 
only  decent  to  defer,  in  this  place,  to  the  author's 
own  feeling  in  the  matter.  Mr.  Squire  is  the 
author  of  The  Birds  and  Other  Poems  and  Poems: 
Second  Series.  My  present  choice  is  the  begin- 
ning and  the  close  of  the  poem,  "Harlequin" — 
which  is  in  both  books: 

Moonlit  woodland,  veils  of  green, 
Caves  of  empty  dark  between; 
Veils  of  green  from  rounded  arms 
Drooping,  that  the  moonlight  charms: 
Tranced  the  trees,  grass  beneath 
Silent.  .  .  . 

Like  a  stealthy  breath. 
Mask  and  wand  and  silver  skin 
Sudden  enters   Harlequin. 

Hist !     Hist !     Watch  him  go, 
Leaping  limb  and  pointing  toe, 
Slender  arms  that  float  and  flow, 

[351] 


WHEN  WINTER  COMES  TO  MAIN  STREET 

Curving  wand  above,  below; 
Flying,  gliding,  changing  feet; 
Onset  merging  in  retreat. 

Not  a  shadow  of  sound  there  Is 
But  his  motion's  gentle   hiss. 
Till  one  fluent  arm  and  hand 
Suddenly  circles,  and  the  wand 
Taps  a  bough  far  overhead, 
"Crack,"  and  then  all  noise  is  dead. 
For  he  halts,  and  for  a  space 
Stands  erect  with  upward  face, 
Taut  and  tense  to  the  white 
Message  of  the  Moon's  light. 

He  was  listening;  he  was  there; 
Flash !  he  went.     To  the  air 
He  a  waiting  ear  had  bent, 
Silent;  but  before  he  went 
Something  somewhere  else  to  seek, 
He  moved  his  lips  as  though  to  speak. 

And  we  wait,  and  in  vain, 
For  he  will  not  come  again. 
Earth,  grass,  wood,  and  air. 
As  we  stare,  and  we  stare. 
Which  that  fierce  life  did  hold, 
Tired,  dim,  void,  cold. 

Milton  Raison  is  a  )^oung  writer,  known  espe- 
cially to  readers  of  The  Bookman,  whose  verse  has 
appeared  in  various  magazines.  A  Russian,  Mil- 
ton Raison  went  to  sea  as  a  boy — he  is  scarcely 
more  than  a  boy  now.  His  first  book  of  verse, 
Spindrift^  carries  a  preface  by  William  McFee. 
I  quote: 

[352] 


POETS  AND  PLAYWRIGHTS 

"There  is  a  Latin  sharpness  of  mentality  mani- 
fested in  these  clearly,  sardonically  etched  por- 
traits of  a  ship's  crew.  The  whimsical  humour 
revealed  in  final  lines  is  a  portent,  in  the  present 
writer's  opinion,  of  a  talent  which  will  probably 
come  to  maturity  in  a  very  different  field.  Indeed 
it  may  be,  though  it  is  too  early  to  dogmatise, 
that  these  poems  are  but  the  early  efflorescence  of 
a  gift  for  vigorous  prose  narrative. 

"Mr.  Milton  Raison  has  settled  for  himself, 
with  engaging  promptitude,  that  a  seafaring 
career  provides  the  inspiration  he  craves.  The  in- 
fluence of  Masefield  is  strong  upon  him,  and  some 
of  his  verses  are  plainly  derivative.  As  already 
hinted,  it  is  too  early  to  say  definitely  how  this 
plan  will  succeed.  In  his  diary,  kept  while  on  a 
voyage  to  South  America,  a  document  remarkable 
for  its  descriptive  power  and  a  certain  crude  and 
virginal  candour,  one  may  discover  an  embryo 
novelist  struggling  with  the  inevitable  limitations 
of  youth.  But  in  his  simple  and  naive  poems, 
whether  they  give  us  some  bizarre  and  catastro- 
phic picture  of  seamen,  or  depict  the  charming 
emotions  of  a  sensitive  adolescence,  there  is  a 
passion  for  experiment  and  humility  of  intellect 
which  promises  well  enough  for  a  young  man  in 
his  teens." 

I  find  it  particularly  difficult  to  choose  a  poem 
for  citation  from  this  book.  Perhaps  I  shall  do 
as  well  as  I  can,  with  only  space  to  quote  one 
poem,  if  I  give  you  "Vision" : 

[353] 


WHEN  WINTER  COMES  TO  MAIN  STREET 

Have  I  forgotten  beauty,  and  the  pang 

Of  sheer  delight  in  perfect  visioning? 

Have  I  forgotten  how  the  spirit  sang 

When  shattered  breakers  sprayed  their  ocean-tang 

To  ease  the  blows  with  which  the  great  cliffs  rang? 

Have  I  forgotten  how  the  fond  stars  fling 

Their  naked  children  to  the  faery  ring 

Of  some  dark  pool,  and  watch  them  play  and  sing 

In  silent  silver  chords  I  too  could  hear? 

Or  smile  to  see  a  starlet  shake  with  fear 

Whenever  winds  disturbed  the  lake's  repose, 

Or  when  in  mocking  mood  they  form  in  rows, 

And  stare  up  at  their  parents — so  sedate — 

Then  break  up  laughing  'neath  a  ripple's  weight? 


It  seems  as  if,  The  First  Person  Singular  hav- 
ing been  published,  more  people  now  know  Wil- 
liam Rose  Benet  as  a  novelist  than  as  a  poet.  I 
cannot  help  feeling  that  to  be  something  of  a  pity. 
I  am  not  going  to  quote  one  of  Mr.  Benet' s  poems 
— indeed  all  his  best  work  is  in  quite  long  and 
semi-narrative  verse — but  I  will  give  you  what 
Don  Marquis  was  inspired  to  write  after  reading 
Benet's  Moons  of  Grandeur.  On  looking  at  it 
again,  I  see  that  Mr.  Marquis  has  quoted  eight 
lines,  so  you  shall  have  your  taste  of  William 
Rose  Benet,  the  poet,  after  all  I 

"Some  day,  just  to  please  ourself,  we  intend 
to  make  a  compilation  of  poems  that  we  love  best ; 
the  ones  that  we  turn  to  again  and  again.  There 
will  be  in  the  volume  the  six  odes  of  Keats,  Shel- 
ley's 'Adonais' ;  Wordsworth's  'Intimations  of  Im- 
mortality';  Milton's  'L'Allegro'   and   'II  Pense- 

[354] 


POETS  AND  PLAYWRIGHTS 

roso' ;  William  Rose  Benet's  'Man  Possessed'  and 
very  little  else. 

"We  don't  'defend'  these  poems  ...  no  doubt 
they  are  all  of  them  quite  indefensible,  in  the  light 
of  certain  special  poetic  revelations  of  the  last 
few  years  .  .  .  and  we  have  no  particular  the- 
ories about  them;  we  merely  yield  ourself  to  them, 
and  they  transport  us ;  we  are  careless  of  reason  in 
the  matter,  for  they  cast  a  spell  upon  us.  We  do 
not  mean  to  say  that  we  are  in  the  category  with 
the  person  who  says:  T  don't  know  anything 
about  art,  but  I  know  what  I  like' — On  the  con- 
trary, we  know  exactly  why  we  like  these  things, 
although  we  don't  intend  to  take  the  trouble  to 
tell  you  now. 

"William  Rose  Benet  has  published  another 
book  of  poems,  Moons  of  Grandeur.  Here  is  a 
stanza  picked  up  at  random — it  happens  to  be  the 
opening  stanza  of  'Gaspara  Stampa' — which 
shows  the  lyric  quality  of  the  verse : 

"Like  flame,  like  wine,  across  the  still  lagoon, 

The  colours  of  the  sunset  stream. 
Spectral  in  heaven  as  climbs  the  frail  veiled  moon 

So  climbs  my  dream. 
Out  of  the  heart's  eternal  torture  fire 

No  eastern  phoenix  risen — 
Only  the  naked  soul,  spent  with  desire, 

Bursts  its  prison. 

"Was  Benet  ever  in  Italy?  No  matter  .  .  . 
he  has  Italy  in  him,  in  his  heart  and  brain.  Italy 
and  Egypt  and  every  other  country  that  was  ever 

[355] 


WHEN  WINTER  COMES  TO  MAIN  STREET 

warmed  by  the  sun  of  beauty  and  shone  on  by  the 
stars  of  romance.  For  the  poems  in  this  book  are 
woven  of  the  stuff  of  sheer  romance.  There  is 
nothing  else  in  the  world  as  depressing  as  a  ro- 
mantic poem  tnat  doesn't  'get  there.'  And  to  us, 
at  least,  there  is  nothing  as  thrilling  as  the  authen- 
tic voice  of  romance,  the  genuine  utterance  of  the 
soul  that  walks  in  communion  with  beauty. 
Moons  of  Grandeur  is  a  ringing  bell  and  a  glim- 
mering tapestry  and  a  draught  of  sparkling  wine. 

"A  certain  rich  intricacy  of  pattern  distin- 
guishes the  physical  body  of  Benet's  art;  when 
he  chooses  he  can  use  words  as  if  they  were  the 
jewelled  particles  of  a  mosaic;  familiar  words, 
with  his  handling,  become  'something  rich  and 
strange.'  Of  the  spiritual  content  of  his  poems, 
we  can  say  nothing  adequate,  because  there  is  not 
much  that  can  be  said  of  spirit;  either  it  is  there 
and  you  feel  it,  and  it  works  upon  you,  or  it  is 
not  there.  There  are  very  few  people  writing 
verse  today  who  have  the  power  to  charm  us  and 
enchant  us  and  carry  us  away  with  them  as  Benet 
can.     He  has  found  the  horse  with  wings." 

The  Bookman  Anthology  of  Verse  (1922), 
edited  by  John  Farrar,  editor  of  The  Bookman,  is 
an  altogether  extraordinary  anthology  to  be  made 
up  from  the  poets  contributing  to  a  single  maga- 
zine in  eighteen  consecutive  months.  Among  those 
who  are  represented  are:  Franklin  P.  Adams, 
Karle  Wilson  Baker,  Maxwell  Bodenheim,  Hilda 
Conkling,  John  Dos  Passos,  Zona  Gale,  D.  H. 

[356] 


POETS  AND  PLAYWRIGHTS 

Lawrence,  Amy  Lowell,  David  Morton,  Edwin 
Arlington  Robinson,  Carl  Sandburg,  Siegfried 
Sassoon,  Sara  Teasdale,  Louis  and  Jean  Starr 
Untermeyer,  and  Elinor  Wylie. 

Mr.  Farrar  has  written  short  introductions  to 
the  example  (or  examples)  of  the  work  of  each 
poet.    In  his  general  preface  he  says: 

"Where  most  anthologies  of  poetry  are  col- 
lected for  the  purpose  of  giving  pleasure  by  means 
of  the  verses  themselves,  I  have  tried  here  to  give 
you  something  of  the  joy  to  be  found  in  securing 
manuscripts,  in  attempting  to  understand  current 
poetry  by  a  broadening  of  taste  to  match  broad- 
ening literary  tendencies;  and,  perhaps  most  im- 
portant of  all,  to  present  you  to  the  poets  them- 
selves as  I  know  them  by  actual  meeting  or  cor- 
respondence." 

I  will  choose  what  Mr.  Farrar  says  about  Hilda 
Conkling,  prefacing  her  poem  "Lonely  Song" ; 
and  then  I  will  quote  the  poem : 

"A  shy,  but  normal  little  girl,  twelve  years  old 
now,  nine  when  her  first  volume  of  verses  ap- 
peared, Hilda  Conkling  is  not  so  much  the  infant 
prodigy  as  a  clear  proof  that  the  child  mind,  be- 
fore the  precious  spark  is  destroyed,  possesses  both 
vision  and  the  ability  to  express  it  in  natural 
and  beautiful  rhythm.  Grace  Hazard  Conkling, 
herself  a  poet,  is  Hilda's  mother.  They  live  at 
Northampton,  Massachusetts,  in  the  academic 
atmosphere  of  Smith  College  where  those  who 
know  the  little  girl  say  that  she  enjoys  sliding 

[357] 


WHEN  WINTER  COMES  TO  MAIN  STREET 

down  a  cellar  stairway  quite  as  much  as  she  does 
talking  of  elves  and  gnomes.  She  was  bom  in 
New  York  State,  so  that  she  is  distinctly  of  the 
East.  The  rhythms  which  she  uses  to  express  her 
ideas  are  the  result  both  of  her  own  moods,  which 
are  often  crystal-clear  in  their  delicate  imagery, 
and  of  the  fact  that  from  time  to  time,  when  she 
was  first  able  to  listen,  her  mother  read  aloud  to 
her.  In  fact,  her  first  poems  were  made  before 
she,  herself,  could  write  them  down.  The  specu- 
lation as  to  what  she  will  do  when  she  grows  to 
womanhood  is  a  common  one.  Is  it  important? 
A  childhood  filled  with  beauty  is  something  to 
have  achieved." 

Bend  low,  blue  sky, 

Touch  my  forehead ; 

You  look  cool  .  .  .  bend  down  .  .  . 

Flow  about  me  in  your  blueness  and  coolness, 

Be   thistledown,   be   flowers, 

Be  all  the  songs  I  have  not  yet  sung. 

Laugh  at  me,  sky! 

Put  a  cap  of  cloud  on  my  head  .  .  . 

Blow  it  off  with  your  blue  winds ; 

Give  me  a  feeling  of  your  laughter 

Beyond   cloud   and   wind ! 

I  need  to  have  you  laugh  at  me 

As  though  you  like4  me  a  little. 

This  has  been,  as  I  meant  it  to  be,  a  wholly 
serious  chapter ;  but  at  the  end  I  find  I  cannot  stop 
without  speaking  of  Keith  Preston.    No  one  who 

[358] 


POETS  AND  PLAYWRIGHTS 

reads  the  Chicago  Daily  News  fails  to  know  Keith 
Preston's  delightful  humour  and  "needle-tipped 
satire."  And  his  book,  Splinters^  contains  all 
sorts  of  good  things  of  which  I  can  give  you,  alas, 
only  some  inadequate  (because  solitary)  sample. 
Yet,  anyway,  here  is  his  "Ode  to  Common  Sense" : 

Spirit  or  demon,  Common  Sense ! 
Seen  seldom  by  us  mortals  dense, 
Come,  sprite,  inform,  inhabit  me 
And  teach  me  art  and  poetry. 

Teach  me  to  chuckle,  sly  as  you, 
At  gods  that  now  I  truckle  to, 
To  doubt  the  New  Republic's  bent, 
And  jeer  each  bookish  Supplement. 

Now,  like  a  thief,  you  come  and  flit, 
You  call  so  seldom.   Mother  Wit! 
Remember?     Once   when   you  stood  by 
I  found  a  Dreiser  novel  dry. 

One  day  when  I  was  reading  hard — 
What  ?    Amy  Lowell,  godlike  bard ! 
You  peeped  and  then  at  what  you  saw 
Gave  one  Gargantuan  guffaw. 

Spirit  or  demon,  coarse  or  rude, 
(Sometimes  I  think  you  must  be  stewed) 
Brute  that  you  are,  I  love  your  powers, 
But, — drop  in  after  office  hours ! 

Yes,  Common  Sense,  be  mine,  I  ask, 
But  still  respect  my  critic's  task ; 
Molest  me  not  when  Fm  employed 
With  psychics,  sex,  vers  libre,  or  Freud, 

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WHEN  WINTER  COMES  TO  MAIN  STREET 

•  • 

11 

The  matter  of  playwrights  is  much  more  diffi- 
cult than  that  of  poets  I  A  play  cannot,  as  a  rule, 
be  satisfactorily  quoted  from.  In  the  case  of  a 
play  which  is  to  be  staged  there  are  terrible  ob- 
jections (on  the  part  of  the  producer)  to  any  ex- 
cerpts at  all  appearing  in  advance.  The  publica- 
tion of  the  text  of  a  play  is  hedged  about  by  all 
manner  of  difficulties,  copyrights,  warnings  and 
solemn  notifications.  As  I  write,  it  is  expected 
that  A.  H.  Woods,  the  producer  of  plays,  will 
stage  at  the  Times  Square  Theatre,  New  York, 
probably  in  September,  1922,  the  new  play  by 
W,  Somerset  Maugham,  East  of  Suez.  Pauline 
Frederick  is  expected  to  assume  the  principal  role. 
Mr.  Maugham's  play  will  be  published  when  it 
has  been  produced,  or,  if  the  theatre  plans  suffer 
one  of  those  changes  to  which  all  theatres  are  sub- 
ject, will  be  published  anyhow  I  Shall  we  say 
that  the  setting  is  Chinese,  and  that  the  characters 
are  Europeans,  and  that  Mr.  Maugham  has  again 
shown  his  peculiar  skill  in  the  delineation  of  the 
white  man  in  contact  with  an  alien  civilisation*? 
We  shall  say  so.  And — never  mind  I  A  sure  pro- 
duction of  the  play  for  the  Fireside  Theatre  is 
hereby  guaranteed.  The  Fireside  Theatre,  blessed 
institution,  has  certain  merits.  The  actors  are  al- 
ways ideal  and  the  performance  always  begins  on 
time,  as  a  letter  to  the  New  York  Times  has 
pointed  out, 

[360] 


POETS  AND  PLAYWRIGHTS 

Arnold  Bennett  has  written  a  lot  of  plays;  The 
Love  Match  is  merely  the  latest  of  them.  If  I 
cannot  very  well  quote  a  scene  from  The  Love 
Match, — on  the  grounds  of  length  and  possible 
unintelligibility  apart  from  the  rest  of  the  drama 
— I  can  give  you,  I  think,  an  idea  of  the  wit  of 
the  dialogue: 

Russ  {with  calm  and  disdainful  resenttne?2t). 
You're  angry  with  me  now. 

Nina  {hurt).  Indeed  I'm  not.  Why  should  I 
be  angry"?  Do  you  suppose  I  mind  who  sends  you 
flowers'? 

Russ.  No,  I  don't.  That's  not  the  reason. 
You're  angry  with  me  because  you  came  in  here 
tonight,  after  saying  positively  you  wouldn't 
come,  and  I  didn't  happen  to  be  waiting  for  you. 

Nina.    Hugh,  you're  ridiculous. 

Russ.  Of  course  I  am.  That's  not  the  reason. 
You  took  me  against  my  will  to  that  footling 
hospital  ball  last  night,  and  I  only  got  three 
hours'  sleep  instead  of  six,  and  you're  angry  with 
me  because  I  yawned  after  you  kissed  me. 

Nina.    You're  too  utterly  absurd! 

Russ.  Of  course  I  am.  That's  not  the  reason, 
either.  The  real  reason  is  {firmly)  you're  angry 
with  me  because  you  clean  forgot  it  was  my 
birthday  today.  That's  why  you're  angry  with 
me. 

Nina.  Well,  I  think  you  might  have  reminded 
me.  .  .  . 

Nina.     I  like  sitting  on  the  carpet.     {She  re- 

[361] 


WHEN  WINTER  COMES  TO  MAIN  STREET 

dines  at  his  feet.)  I  wonder  why  women  nowa- 
days are  so  fond  of  the  floor. 

Russ.    Because  they're  oriental,  of  course. 

Nina.  But  Fm  not  oriental,  Hughie !  {Look- 
ing at  him  ivith  loving  passion.)    Am  I*? 

Russ.     That's  the  Eastern  question. 

Nina.     But  you  like  it,  don't  you'? 

Russ.  Every  man  has  a  private  longing  to  live 
in  the  East. 

Nina.    But  not  harems  and  things*? 

Russ.    Well — within  reason.  .  .  . 

Nina.  What  do  you  think  of  me"?  I'm  al- 
ways dying  to  know,  and  I'm  never  sure. 

Russ.     What  do  you  think  of  me?' 

Nina.  I  think  you're  magnificent  and  terrible 
and  ruthless. 

Russ  {with  amicable  sincerity).  Oh,  no,  I'm 
not.     But  you  are. 

Nina.  How?  When?  When  was  I  ruthless 
last? 

Russ.  You're  always  ruthless  in  your  appe- 
tite for  life.  You  want  to  taste  everything,  en- 
joy all  the  sensations  there  are.  This  evening  you 
like  intensely  to  sit  very  quiet  on  the  floor;  but 
last  night  you  were  mad  about  dancing  and  eat- 
ing and  drinking.  You  couldn't  be  still.  To- 
morrow night  it'll  be  something  else.  There's  no 
end  to  what  you  want,  and  what  you  want  tre- 
mendously, and  what  you've  jolly  well  got  to 
have.  You  aren't  a  woman.  You're  a  hundred 
women. 

[362] 


POETS  AND  PLAYWRIGHTS 

Nina.  Oh!  Hughie.  How  well  you  under- 
stand ! 

Russ.    Yes,  don't  I*? 

Nina  {tenderly).  Do  I  make  you  very  un- 
happy^ Hughie,  you  mustn't  tell  me  I  make  you 
unhappy.     I  couldn't  bear  it. 

Russ.    Then  I  won't. 

Nina.     But  do  I*? 

Russ.  Let's  say  you  cause  a  certain  amount  of 
disturbance  sometimes. 

Nina.  But  you  like  me  to  be  as  I  am,  don't 
you*? 

Russ.    Yes. 

Nina.    Y^ou  wouldn't  have  me  altered? 

Russ.    Can't  alter  a  climate. 

Nina.  You  don't  know  how  much  I  want  to 
be  perfect  for  you. 

Russ.  You  know  my  ruthless  rule,  "The  best 
is  good  enough;  chuck  everything  else  into  the 
street."  Have  I  ever,  on  any  single  occasion, 
chucked  you  into  the  street? 

Nina.    But  I  want  to  be  more  perfect. 

Russ.  Why  do  women  always  hanker  after 
the  impossible? 

J.  Hartley  Manners  is  the  husband  of  Laurette 
Taylor  and  the  author  of  plays  in  some  of  which 
she  appears.  His  drama  The  Harp  of  Life  has 
as  its  theme  the  love  of  two  women,  his  mother 
and  a  courtesan,  for  a  nineteen-year-old  boy,  and 
their  willing  self-sacrifice  that  he  may  go  forward 
unbroken     and     unsmirched.       The     interesting 

[363] 


WHEN  WINTER  COMES  TO  MAIN  STREET 

thing,  aside  from  the  strength  of  the  play  and  its 
vivid  study  of  adolescence,  is  the  portrait  of  the 
mother.  And  now  his  play,  The  National 
Anthem^  which  caused  so  much  discussion,  is  pro- 
curable in  book  form. 

Here  I  have  been  talking  about  East  of  Suez 
and  The  Love  Match  and  have  said  nothing  about 
The  Circle  or  Milestones!  But  I  suppose  every- 
one knows  that  The  Circle  is  by  Maugham  and 
was  markedly  successful  when  it  was  produced 
in  New  York;  and  surely  everyone  must 
know  that  Milestones  is  by  Arnold  Bennett  and 
Edward  Knoblauch — one  of  the  great  plays  of 
the  last  quarter  century.  I  must  take  a  mo- 
ment to  speak  of  Sidney  Howard's  four  act 
play,  Swords.  I  think  the  best  thing  to  do  is  to 
give  what  Kenneth  Macgowan,  an  exception- 
ally able  critic  of  the  drama,  said  about  the 
play: 

''Sivords  is  as  remarkable  a  play  as  America  has 
ever  produced.  It  is  a  drama  of  action  on  a  par 
with  The  Jest^  fused  with  the  ecstasy  of  inspira- 
tion and  the  mysticism  of  the  spirit  and  the  body 
of  woman.  It  sets  Ghibelline  and  Guelph,  Pope 
and  Emperor,  two  nobles  and  a  dog  of  the  gutters 
fighting  for  a  lady  of  strange  and  extraordinary 
beauty  who  is  the  bride  of  one  noble  and  the  host- 
age of  the  other.  With  the  passions,  the  cruelties, 
and  spiritual  vision  of  the  middle  ages  to  build 
upon  Swords  sweeps  upward  to  a  scene  of  sudden, 
flashing  conflict  shot  with  the  mystic  and  trium- 

[364] 


POETS  AND  PLAYWRIGHTS 

phant  ecstasy  which  emanates  from  this  glorious 


woman." 


American  lovers  of  the  drama  have  a  special 
interest  in  the  two  volumes  of  The  Plays  of 
Hubert  Henry  Davies.  At  the  time  of  his  first 
success  Mr.  Davies  was  working  in  San  Francisco, 
whither  he  had  come  from  England.  It  was 
Frohman  who  made  him  an  offer  that  brought 
him  to  New  York  and  began  the  series  of  produc- 
tions which  ended  only  with  his  death  in  1917 
in  Paris.  These  two  volumes,  very  beautiful  ex- 
amples of  fine  bookmaking,  contain  the  successes : 
Cousin  Kate,  Captain  Drew  on  heave,  and  The 
Mollusc.  Among  the  other  plays  included  are: 
A  Single  Man,  Doormats,  Outcasts,  Mrs.  Gov- 
ringe's  Necklace,  and  Lady  Epping^s  Lawsuit. 
Hugh  Walpole  has  contributed  a  very  touching 
introduction. 


[365] 


Chapter  XXIII 

THE  BOOKMAN  FOUNDATION  AND  THE 

BOOKMAN 


THANK  you  very  much  for  the  May  Book- 
man," writes  Hugh  Walpole  (June,  1922). 
"I  have  been  reading  The  Bookman  during  the 
last  year  and  I  congratulate  Mr.  Farrar  most 
strongly  upon  it.  The  paper  has  now  a  personal- 
ity unlike  any  other  that  I  know  and  it  is  the  least 
dull  of  all  literary  papers  I  I  like  especially  the 
more  serious  articles,  the  series  of  sketches  of  lit- 
erary personalities  seeming  especially  excellent  to 
me."  Mr.  Walpole  evidently  had  in  mind  the 
feature  of  The  Bookman  called  "The  Literary 
Spotlight." 

"The  Bookman  is  alive.  If  there  is  a  better 
quality  in  the  long  run  for  a  general  literary 
magazine  to  try  for,  I  do  not  know  what  it  is," 
writes  Carl  Van  Doren,  literary  editor  of  The 
Nation. 

"Mr.  Farrar  has  turned  The  Bookman  into  a 
monthlv  brimming  with  his  own  creative  enthusi- 

[366] 


THE  BOOKMAN  FOUNDATION 

asm,"  says  Louis  Untermeyer.    "It  has  technically 
as  well  as  figuratively  no  rival." 

And  Irvin  S.  Cobb  declares:  "By  my  way  of 
thinking,  it  is  the  most  informative,  the  most  en- 
tertaining, and  incidentally  the  brightest  and  most 
amusing  publication  devoted  to  literature  and  its 
products  that  I  have  ever  seen." 

ii 

The  idea  of  The  Bookman  Foundation  first  oc- 
curred in  a  discussion  of  the  future  of  the  maga- 
zine and  the  ampler  purposes  it  was  desired  to 
have  The  Bookman  serve.  The  idea  had  been  ad- 
vanced that  more  than  the  future  of  the  maga- 
zine should  be  considered ;  those  to  whom  the  wel- 
fare of  the  magazine  was  a  most  important  con- 
sideration distinctly  felt  that  welfare  to  depend 
upon  a  healthy  and  thriving  condition  of  Ameri- 
can literature  and  of  American  interest  in 
American  literature.  The  broadest  possible  view, 
as  is  so  often  the  case,  seemed  the  only  ultimately 
profitable  view.  In  what  way  could  The  Book- 
man serve  the  interests  of  American  literature  in 
which  it  was  not  already  serving  them"?  How 
could  public  interest  in  American  literature  best 
be  stimulated? 

The  idea  gradually  took  shape  as  a  form  of 
foundation,  naturally  to  be  called  The  Bookman 
Foundation,  with  a  double  purpose.  Fundamen- 
tally The  Bookman  Foundation  is  being  estab- 
lished to  stimulate  the  study  of  American  litera- 

[367] 


WHEN  WINTER  COMES  TO  MAIN  STREET 

ture  and  its  development;  more  immediately,  and 
as  the  direct  means  to  that  end,  the  purpose  of  the 
Foundation  will  be  to  afford  a  vehicle  for  the  best 
constructive  criticism,  spoken  and  written,  on  the 
beginnings  and  development  of  our  literature.  In 
association  with  the  faculty  of  English  at  one  of 
the  larger  and  older  American  universities,  Yale, 
the  Foundation  will  establish  a  lectureship;  and 
annually  there  will  be  given  at  Yale  a  lecture  or 
a  course  of  lectures  on  American  literature  by 
some  distinguished  writer  or  critic.  It  is  hoped 
that,  as  the  Foundation  grows,  other  universities 
will  be  brought  into  co-operation  with  Yale  so 
that  the  lectureship  may  move  from  centre  to 
centre,  stimulating  to  intelligent  self-expression 
the  varied  elements  that  are  contributing  to  our 
national  growth. 

The  lectures  given  on  The  Bookman  Founda- 
tion will  be  published  in  book  form  by  The  Book- 
man in  a  handsome  and  uniform  edition.  Mem- 
bership in  The  Bookman  Foundation  will  be  by 
invitation.  All  members  of  the  Foundation  will 
be  entitled  to  receive  the  published  lectures  with- 
out charge  and  they  will  also  have  the  privilege 
of  subscribing  for  certain  first  and  limited  edi- 
tions of  notable  American  books.  At  the  present 
writing,  even  so  much  as  I  have  suggested  is 
largely  tentative,  and  I  offer  it  for  its  essential 
idea;  an  executive  committee  of  The  Bookman 
Foundation,  in  co-operation  with  an  advisory 
committee,  the  members  of  which  committees  have 

[368] 


THE  BOOKMAN 

yet  to  be  finally  determined,  will  settle  all  details. 
By  the  time  of  this  book's  publication  or  even 
sooner,  I  expect  a  full  announcement  will  have 
been  made ;  and  for  the  correction  of  what  I  have 
stated  I  would  refer  the  reader  to  The  Bookman 
itself. 

«  •  • 

111 

I  am  not  going  to  give  a  historical  account  of 
The  Bookman  here.  The  magazine  is  no  new- 
comer among  American  periodicals.  It  has  a  rea- 
sonably old  and  highly  honourable  history.  For 
long  published  by  the  house  of  Dodd,  Mead  & 
Company,  it  was  acquired  by  George  H.  Doran 
Company  and  placed  under  the  editorial  direction 
of  Robert  Cortes  Holliday.  That  was  the  begin- 
ning of  a  new  vitality  in  its  pages.  Mr.  Holliday 
was  succeeded  by  Mr.  Farrar,  and  now,  in  its 
fifty-sixth  volume.  The  Bookman  seems  to  the 
thousands  who  read  it  more  interesting  than  ever 
before  in  its  history. 

The  roll  call  of  its  past  and  present  contributors 
includes  many  of  the  representative  names  in  con- 
temporary American  and  English  literature.     I 
will  give  a  few: 
Joseph  Hergesheimer 
Amy  Lowell 
Siegfried  Sassoon 
James  Branch  Cabell 
Mary  Roberts  Rinehart 
Zona  Gale 

[369] 


WHEN  WINTER  COMES  TO  MAIN  STREET 

Fannie  Hurst 
William  McFee 
Sherwood  Anderson 
Hugh  Walpole 
Frank  Swinnerton 
Robert  Frost 
Sara  Teasdale 
Irvin  S.  Cobb 
Richard  Le  Gallienne 
Donn  Byrne 
Christopher  Morley 
Robert  Cortes  Holliday 
Johan  Bojer 
William  Rose  Benet 
Edgar  Lee  Masters 
Kathleen  Norris 
Frederick  O'Brien 
D.  H.  Lawrence 
John  Drinkwater 
Joseph  C.  Lincoln 
George  Jean  Nathan 
William  Allen  White 
Carl  Sandburg 
Sinclair  Lewis 
F.  Scott  Fitzgerald 
Eugene  O'Neill 
H.  L.  Mencken 
John  Dos  Passos 
Elinor  Wylie 
Gertrude  Atherton 
Floyd  Dell 

[370] 


THE  BOOKMAN 


IV 


Among  the  American  essayists  whose  work  has 
appeared  in  The  Bookman  before  its  publication 
in  book  form  is  Robert  Cortes  HoUiday;  among 
strikingly  successful  books  that  appeared  serially 
in  The  Bookman  was  Donald  Ogden  Stewart's 
A  Parody  Outline  of  History.  Among  The  Book- 
man's regular  reviewers  are  Louis  Untermeyer, 
Wilson  Follett,  Paul  Elmer  More,  H.  L.  Menc- 
ken, Henry  Seidel  Canby  and  Maurice  Francis 
Egan.  Among  writers  of  distinction  whose  short 
stories  have  first  appeared  in  The  Bookman  are 
William  McFee,  Sherwood  Anderson,  Mary  Aus- 
tin, and  Johan  Bojer;  while  the  intimate  personal 
portraits  published  under  the  general  title  "The 
Literary  Spotlight"  have  Lytton  Stracheyized 
contemporary  American  literature.  Possibly  it  is 
in  the  department  of  poetry  that  The  Bookman 
now  shines  the  brightest  (see  the  account  of  The 
Bookman  Anthology  in  the  previous  chapter)  ;  if 
so,  that  may  be  because  the  editor,  John  Farrar,  is 
himself  a  poet. 

Probably  no  other  literary  magazine  in  the 
world  exhibits  such  a  degree  of  personal  contact 
between  the  editor,  his  readers,  his  contributors 
and  the  magazine's  friends.  This  note  of  personal 
contact  is  constantly  reflected  in  the  magazine's 
pages;  but  anyone  who  has  called  upon  the  edi- 
tor of  The  Bookman  once  or  twice  will  know 
explicitly  just  what  I  mean. 

[371] 


EPILOGUE 

I  have  been  surprised,  on  looking  back  over 
these  chapters,  by  the  variety  of  the  books  I  have 
talked  about.  That  so  diverse  a  list  should  be 
under  a  single  imprint  and  should  represent,  with 
few  exceptions,  the  publications  of  a  single 
twelvemonth,  seems  to  me  very  remarkable.  I 
believe  a  majority  of  the  books  are  the  production 
of  a  single  publishing  season,  the  autumn  of  1922, 
and  the  Doran  imprint  is  but  thirteen  years  old. 

"Of  the  making  of  books,  there  is  no  end" ;  but 
of  the  making  of  any  single  book,  there  must 
come  an  end.  Yet  what  is  the  end  of  a  book  but 
the  beginning  of  new  friendships^ 


THE   END 


[372] 


INDEX 


Agate,  James  E.,  49;  Alarums  and 
Excursions,  49;  dramatic  critic, 
50;  Responsibility,  50;  review- 
by  The  Londoner,  in  The  Book- 
man, 50 

Alarums  and  Excursions  by  James 
E.  Agate,   49 

Alone  in  the  Caribbean,  by  Fred- 
eric A.   Fenger,    194 

Altar  Steps,  The,  by  Compton 
Mackenzie,  265,   266 

Amasing  Adventures  of  Letitia 
Carberry,  The,  by  Mary  Roberts 
Rinehart,    108,    115,    116 

Amasing  Interlude,  The,  by  Mary 
Roberts   Rinehart,    105,    115,    116 

Andrews,  C.  E.,  Old  Morocco  and 
the   Forbidden  Atlas,    193 

Ann  and  Her  Mother,  by  O. 
Douglas,    249 

Anna  of  the  Five  Towns,  by 
Arnold  Bennett,   146,   149 

Art  of  Lawn  Tennis,  The,  by  Wil- 
liam  T.    Tilden,    213 

Asquith,  Elizabeth  (Princess  An- 
toine  Bibesco),  daughter  of  Mar- 
got   Asquith,   47 

Asquith,  Margot,  89;  mother  of 
Elizabeth,  47;  My  Impressions 
of  America,  122;  The  Autobi- 
ography of  Margot  Asquith,    122 

Autobiography  of  Margot  Asquith, 
The,   by    Margot   Asquith,    122 

Bailey,  Margaret  Emerson,  Robin 
Hood's  Barn,    194 

Balloons,  by  Princess  Antoine  Bi- 
besco, 47 

Banning,  Margaret  Culkin,  Half 
Loaves,  253;  Spellbinders,  252; 
This  Marrying,  253 

Barton,  Olive  Roberts,  Cloud  Boat 
Stories,  162;  Column.  ib2;  re- 
view by  Candace  T.  Stevenson, 
162-164;  sister  of  Mary  Roberts 
Rinehart,  161;  Wonderful  Land 
of  Up,  162;  work  with  children, 
161 

Beauty  for  Ashes,  by  Jean  Suther- 
land, 262 

Belloc,   Hilaire,   23,  77 


Benet,  William  Rose,  Moons  of 
Grandeur,  354,  355;  review  by 
Don  Marquis,  354.  355;  Benet, 
William  Rose,  The  First  Person 
Singular,    262,    263,    354 

Bennett,  Arnold  133,  134,  144, 
145,  147.  148,  149,  150,  151;  A 
Man  from  the  North,  146,  149; 
Anna  of  the  Five  Towns.  146, 
149;  article  on  Hugh  Walpole, 
22,  2T,;  booklet  by  George  H. 
Doran  Co.,  150;  books  by,  list 
of,  149,  150;  Clayhangcr,  148, 
149;  comments  of  Frank  Swin- 
nerton's  Books,  225 ;  comments 
on  The  Casement,  by  Frank 
Swinnerton,  236-242;  criticism 
by  New  York  Evening  Post, 
148;  Cupid  and  Commonsense, 
i33>  150;  description  of  Hugh 
Walpole,  22;  Friendship  and 
Happiness,  303;  How  to  Live  on 
Ticenty-four  Hours  a  Day,  303; 
Lilian,  133;  Love  and  Life, 
146;  Married  Life,  303;  Mental 
Efficiency,  303;  Milestones  (with 
Edward  Knoblauch),  364;  Mr. 
Prohack,  133,  141.  149;  on  Hugh 
Walpole's  courage,  25 ;  Polite 
Farces,  146;  Self  and  Self -Man- 
agement,  303;  sketch  of  life  by 
John  W.  Cunliffe,  144-148,  150; 
sources  on,  150;  The  Author's 
Craft,  150;  education  of,  145; 
The  Gates  of  Wrath,  146,  149; 
The  Love  Match,  361,  364;  The 
Old  Wives'  Tale,  133,  149;  The 
Truth  About  an  Author,  144,  150 

Benson,   E.  F.,  Peter,  261 

Betxveen  Two  Thieves,  by  Richard 
Dehan  (Clotilde  Graves),  198, 
200,   210 

Bibesco,  Princess  Antoine  (Eliza- 
beth Asquith),  47;  Balloons,  47; 
I  Have  Only  Myself  to  Blame, 
.47 

Birds  and  Other  Poems,  The,  by 
J.  C.  Squire,  351;  Quotation 
from,    351; 

Black  Gang,  The,  by  Cyril  Mc- 
Neile,   70 


[373] 


INDEX 


Black  CcFsar's  Clan,  by  Albert 
Payson  Tcrhune,   71 

Blacl;  Gold,  by  Albert  Payson 
Terhune,  71;  Foreword  to,  by 
Albert    Payson   Terhune,   7' -74. 

Blaker,  Richard,  The  Voice  in 
the   Wilderness,   263 

Bookman,  The;  articles  by  Robert 
Cortes  Holliday,  221;  Comment 
on  Richard  Dehan,  198,  211; 
Comments  on  by  Hugh  Walpole, 
Carl  Van  Doren,  Irvin  S.  Cobb, 
Louis  Untermeyer,  367;  List  of 
contributors,  370,  371;  List  of 
Reviewers,    371 

Book  of  Humorous  Verse,  by 
Carolyn  Wells,   99 

Bookman  Anthology  of  Verse 
(1922),    356;    Contributors,    356, 

3S7 

Bookman  Foundation,  The,  367, 
368;   lectures  on,   368 

Books  in  General,  Third  Series, 
by    J.    C.    Squire,    44 

Bottome,  Phyllis  (Mrs.  A.  E. 
Forbes  Dennis),  258;  Acquaint- 
ances, 259;  The  Kingfisher, 
260 

Boy  Journalist  Series,  by  Francis 
Rolt-Wheeler,    159,    161 

Breaking  Point,  The,  by  Marjr 
Roberts  Rinehart,  105;  resume 
of,     105-7,     117  ,_       r,   ,. 

Broome  Street  Straws,  by  Robert 
Cortes    Holliday,    52 

Broun,  Heywood,  40;  columnist. 
Pieces  of  Hate  and  Other 
Enthusiasms,         41;  Subjects 

touched,    41,    42,    43 

Buchan,  John,  The  Path  of  the 
King,  249;  The  Thirty-nine 
Steps 

Buckrose,  J.  E.  (Mrs.  Falconer 
Jameson),  A  Knight  Among 
Ladies,    251 

Bulldog  Drummond,  by  Cyril 
McNeile,    70 

Burke,  Thomas.  187,  189,  190; 
More  Limehouse  Nights,  187; 
Nights  in  London,  190;  Reasons 
given  for  his  characters,  187, 
i88,    189;    The  London  Spy,    189 

Byron,  May,  Billy  Butt's  Adven- 
ture, 153;  Jack-a-Dandy,  153; 
Little  Jumping  Joan,  153;  Old 
Friends    in    New   Frocks,     153 

Candles  that  Burn,  by  Mrs.  Kilmer 
Captives.    The,    by    Hugh    Walpole, 

24,   27,   30,   31;   won  Tait  Black 

Prize,    1920,    30 


Carnival,  by  Compton  Mackenzie, 
26s 

Casement,  The,  by  Frank  Swin- 
nerton,    236,    242 

Cathedral.  The,  by  Hugh  Wal- 
pole, 19,  31;  at  Polchester,  19; 
review    of,     19 

Century  of  Banking  in  New  York, 
1822-1922,  A,  by  Henry  Wysham 
Lanier,    193 

Chambers,  Robert  W.,  article  on, 
by  Rupert  Hughes,  320;  Eris, 
311,  317,  320;  In  the  Quarter, 
317,  318;  lolc,  318,  319;  list  of 
books  by,  318.  319.  320;  Sources 
On,  320;  Story-teller,  308;  The 
Flaming  Jewel,  311,  320;  The 
King  in  Yellow,  317,  318;  The 
Talkers,  317,  320;  The  Witch 
of  Ellango-wan.  318;  With  the 
Band  (poem),  317 

Chaste  Wife,  The,  by  Frank 
Swinnerton.    226,    243 

Chinese  Metal,  by  E.  G.  Kemp, 
190;  comment  by  Sao-Ke  Al- 
fred   Sze,    191 

Circle,  The,  by  W.  Somerset 
Maugham,    289,    292,    364 

Circuit  Rider's  Wife,  A,  by  Corra 
Harris,    257 

Circular  Staircase.  The,  by  Mary 
Roberts  Rinehart,  no,  114, 
116 

Claim  Jumpers,  The,  by  Stewart 
Edward   White,    55,   63,   66 

Clayhanger,  by  Arnold  Bennett, 
148,    149  .         ^  . 

Cloud  Boat  Stories,  by  Olive 
Roberts    Barton,     162 

Cobb,  Irvin  S.,  89,  241;  An  Occur- 
rence up  a  Side  Street,  176, 
180;  as  a  humorist,  179;  at 
Portsmouth  Peace  Conference, 
177,  178;  biography  by  Robert 
H.  Davis,  172-183,  186;  books 
by,  184;  comments  on  The 
Bookman,  367;  description  of 
self,  182,  183;  dimensions  of, 
166;  editorial  work,  17s,  176; 
Fishhead,  176,  j8o;  /.  Poin- 
dexter.  Colored,  169,  185;  lec- 
ture by  Gelett  Burgess,  179; 
Plays  by,  185;  report  of  Thaw 
Trial,  178;  Sources  on,  186; 
Stickfuls,  169,  185;  The  Belled 
Buzsard,  176,  180;  The  Escape 
of    Mr.     Trimm,     178,     180,     184 

Collected  Parodies,  by  J.  C. 
Squire,     98;     Selections,     98,    99 

Coming  of  the  Peoples,  The,  by 
Francis    Rolt-Wheeler,    161 


[374] 


INDEX 


Confessions  of  a  Well-Meaning 
Woman,  The,  by  Stephen  Mc- 
Kenna,  337,  344,  346;  Quota- 
tions from  London  Times,  337- 
339;    Sample    of,    344,    345 

Conjuror's  House,  by  Stewart 
Edward   White,   66 

Conkling,   Hilda,    356 

Connor,    Ralph,    264 

Conrad,  Joseph,  A  Critical  Study 
of  Walpole,  31;  experiences 
similar.  25;  introductory  note 
to  Anthology,  28 

Cooperative  Moz'ement,  by  Dr. 
James    B.    Warbasse,    300 

Coquette,  by  Frank  Swinnerton, 
226.    243 

Creative  Spirit  in  Industry,  The, 
by  Robert  B.  Wolf,  300 

Crisis  of  the  Naval  War,  by  Vis- 
count Jellicoe  of  Scapa,  329; 
review  of,  in  Proceedings  of 
the  United  States  Naval  Insti- 
tute,  329,   330,   331 

Crome  Yellow,  by  Aldous  Huxley, 

34 

Cummins,  Col.  Stevenson  Lyle, 
in  Who's  Who,  156,  157;  Plays 
for    Children,     157 

Cupid  and  Commonsense,  by  Ar- 
nold   Bennett,    133,    150 


Dana,  H.  W.  L.,  297;  Social 
Forces  in   Literature,    300 

Dancers  in  the  Dark,  by  Dorothy 
Speare,    255,    256 

Daniels,  Josephus,  Our  Navy  at 
War,   321,   322 

Dark  Forest,  The,  by  Hugh  Wal- 
pole,   16,  28,    31 

Davey,  Norman,  36,  37;  Guinea 
Girl,  36,  37;  The  Gas  Turbine, 
37;   The  Pilgrim  of   a  Smile,   36 

Davies,  Hubert  Henry,  Plays  of, 
A  Single  Man,  365 ;  Captain 
Drew  on  Leave,  365;  Cousin 
Kate,  36s;  Doormats,  365; 
Lady  Epping's  Law  Suit,  365; 
Mrs.  Gorringe's  Necklace,  365; 
Outcasts,  365;   The  Mollusc,  365 

Davis.  Robert  H.,  186;  biographer 
of  Irvin  S.  Cobb,  172,  186;  Box 
Score    of    Writers,    183 

Days  Before  Yesterday,  by  Lord 
Frederic    Hamilton,     131 

de    Stael,    Madame,    128 

"Death  of  Lully,"  in  Limbo,  by 
Aldous    Huxley,     36 

Deaves  Affair,  The,  by  Hulbert 
Footner,    75 


December  Love,  by  Robert 
Hichins,    249 

Dehan,  Richard  (Clotilda  Graves), 
196,  197,  199,  200.  201,  204, 
209.  210,  211;  Between  Two 
Thieves,  198,  200,  210;  books 
by,  210;  Comment  by  The  Book- 
man, 198;  sources  on,  211; 
That  Which  Hath  Wings,  200, 
210;  The  Dap  Doctor,  196,  200, 
210;  The  Eve  of  Pascua,  201, 
210;  The  Just  Steward,  201, 
202,  203,  205,  206,  207,  208, 
210 

Denham,  Sir  James,  Memoirs  of 
the  Memorable,    1 19 

Dennis,  Mrs.  A.  E.  Forbes,  se€ 
Phyllis    Bottome,    258 

Dircks,     Helen,     Passenger,     236 

Djemal    Pasha,    Memoirs    of,     122 

Doors  of  the  Night,  by  Frank  L. 
Packard,    68,    69 

Dop  Doctor,  The,  by  Richard 
Dehan  (Clotilde  Graves),  196, 
200,    210 

Dos  Passos,  John,  356;  A  Push- 
cart at  the  Curb,  347;  de  Una- 
muno,  Miguel,  39;  Manrique, 
Jorge,  Ode,  39;  Rosinante  to 
The  Road  Again,  38,  347;  Three 
Soldiers,    347 

Douglas,  O.,  249;  Ann  and  Her 
Mother,  249;  Penny  Plain,  249; 
Sister   of   John    Buchan,    249 

Doyle,  Sir  Arthur  Conan,  115; 
Spiritualism  and  Rationalism, 
302;  The  New  Revelation,  302; 
The  Vital  Message,  302;  The 
Wanderings  of  a  Spiritualist, 
302 

Dreiser,  Theodore,  review  of 
Human  Bondage,  in  New  Re- 
public,   272-277 

Duchess  of  Wrexe,  The,  by  Hugh 
Walpole,    19,    31 


Earth's    Story,    The,    by    Frederic 

Arnold   Kummer,    155 
East    of    Sues,    by    W.     Somerset 

Maugham,    284,    292,    360 
Education    of   Eric  Laiv,    The,    see 

The    Sensationalists,   by    Stephen 

McKenna,    342,    346 
Ellis,    Havelock,    Little    Essays    of 

Love  and    Virtue,   302;   Emperor 

Francis   Joseph   and    His    Times, 

The,  by  Baron  Margutti,   130 
English      Literature      During      the 

Last  Half  Century,  by  John  W. 

Cunliffe,    144,    150 


[375I 


INDEX 


Eris,     by     Robert     W.     Chambers, 

311.     317.     320;     from     extracts, 

311-316,    320 
Escafe    of    Mr.     Trimm,    The,    by 

Irvin    S.    Cobb,    178,    180,    184 
Essays     on     Religion,     by     T.     R. 

Glover,   305 
Eve    of    Pascua,    The,   by    Richard 

Dehan     (Clotilda    Graves),    201, 

210 
Eyes     of    Love,     The,     by     Corra 

Harris,       257;       extract      from, 

257-8 

Facing  Reality,  by  Esme  Wing- 
field-Stratford,  300;  Chapter 
titles,  300;  introduction,  ex- 
tracts   from,     300,    301 

Fairies  and  Chimneys,  by  Rose 
Fyleman,  158;  Quotation  from, 
158 

Fairy  Flute,  The,  by  Rose  Fyle- 
man,   158 

Farnsworth,  Sidney,  Illumination 
and  Its  Development  in  the 
Present  Day,  223 

Farrar,  John,  Editor  of  The 
Bookman,  94,  357;  poet,  371; 
Editor,       see       The       Bookman, 

371 
Fenger,     Frederic     A.,     Alone    in 

the   Caribbean,    194 
First     Days     of     Man,      The,     by 

Frederic    Arnold    Kummer,     155, 

156 
First    Person    Singular,     The,    by 

William    Rose    Benet,    262,    263, 

354 
Flaming    Jewel,     The,    by     Robert 

W.    Chambers,    311,    320 
Follctt,    Wilson,    comparisons,    52; 

Reviewer     The     Bookman,     371; 

Some    Modern    Novelists,     150 
Footner,      Hulbert,      The      Dcaves 

Affair,    75;    The    Owl    Taxi,    74, 

75 

Forbes,  Lady  Angela,  Memories 
and  Base  Details,  130;  Memo- 
ries Discreet  and  Indiscreet, 
130;    More    Indiscretions,    129 

Forbes,  Rosita,  The  Secret  of  the 
Sahara:  Kufara,   192 

Fortitude,  by  Hugh  Walpole,  21, 
23,   27,    31;   theme   of,    21,    31 

Forty  Years  On,  by  Lord  Ernest 
Hamilton,    132 

"Frankincense  and  Myrrh,"  from 
Pieces  of  Hate,  by  Heywood 
Broun,    41,    42,    43 

From  Now  On,  by  Frank  L. 
Packard,   68,   69 


Further  Adventures  of  Jimmie 
Dale,  The,  by  Frank  L.  Pack- 
ard,   68,   69 

Further  Adventures  of  Lad,  by 
Albert  Payson  Terhune,  215; 
extracts    from,    216 

Fyleman,  Rose,  Fairies  and  Chim- 
neys, 158;  The  Fairy  Flute, 
158 

Gabriel,  Gilbert  W.,  53;  Jiminy, 
novel  by,  53;  music  critic,  N. 
Y.  Sun,  53;  Novelist,  53;  sub- 
stitute   for    Don    Marquis,    54 

Gates  of  Wrath,  The,  by  Arnold 
Bennett,    146,    149 

Gavit,  John  Palmer,  account  of 
Stewart  Edward  White,  65,  66, 
67 

Geister,  Edna,  Ice-breakers  and 
the  Ice-Breaker  Herself,  219; 
It  Is  to  Laugh,  219 

Gist  of  Golf,  The,  by  Harry  Var- 
don,    213 

Giving  and  Receiving,  by  E.  V. 
Lucas,     307 

Glover,  T.  R.,  Essays  on  Re- 
ligion, 305 ;  Jesus  in  the  Ex- 
perience of  Man,  305 ;  Poets 
and  Pilgrims,  305;  Poets  and 
Puritans,  305;  The  Jesus  of 
History,  305 ;  The  Nature  and 
Purpose  of  a  Christian  Society, 
305;    The  Pilgrim,   305 

Gods  and  Mr.  Perrin,  The,  by 
Hugh    Walpole,    22,    27,    31 

Gold,  by  Stewart  Edward  White, 
61,   67 

Golden    Scarecrow,    The,    15,    27, 

31 

Gold-Killer,    by   John    Prosper,    75 

Grand  Fleet,  The,  by  Viscount 
Jellicoe   of    Scapa,   329 

Graves,  Clotilde  (Richard  De- 
han), 196,  197,  198,  199,  200, 
204,  209,  210,  211;  A  Mother 
of  Three,  199,  210;  Nitocris, 
199,   210;    Puss  in   Boots,    199 

Green  Mirror,  The,  by  Hugh 
Walpole,    19,    27,    31 

"Greenow,  Richard,"  of  Limbo, 
by    Aldous    Huxley,    36 

Guinea  Girl,  by  Norman  Davey, 
36,    37 

Guest,  Leslie  Haden,  The  Struggle 
for  Power  in  Europe  (1917- 
21),    323.    324 

Haggard,  Andrew  C.  P.,  Madame 
de  Stael;  Her  Trials  and 
Triumphs,    129 


[376] 


INDEX 


Half  Loaves,  by  Margaret  Culkin 
Banning,   253 

Hambourg,  Mark,  How  to  Play 
the  Piano.   219,  220 

Hamilton,  Lord  Ernest,  Forty 
Years    On,    131 

Hamilton,  Lord  Frederic,  Days 
Before  Yesterday,  131;  Diplo- 
matic Services,  131;  Education, 
131;  Here.  There  and  Every- 
where, 131;  The  Vanished 
Pomps   of    Yesterday,    131 

"Happy  Families,"  in  Limbo,  by 
Aldous    Huxley,    36 

Happy  Family,  The,  by  Frank 
Swinnerton,    226,    238,    242 

Harcourt,    Edward    Vernon,    1:8 

Harcourt,  Sir  William,  George 
Granville  Venables  Vernon,  Life 
of,    118 

"Harlequin,"  from  The  Birds  and 
Other   Poems,   by   J.    C.    Squire, 

351,   352 

Harp  of  Life,  The,  by  J.  Hartley 
Manners,     363 

Harris,  Corra,  257,  264;  A  Cir- 
cuit Rider's  Wife,  257;  The 
Eyes  of  Love,   257 

Harrison,  Marguerite  E.,  Ma- 
rooned in  Russia,    192 

Hawthorne,  Nathaniel,  A  Won- 
der Book,  165;  The  Scarlet 
Letter,  327,  328 

Hayhurst,  Dr.  Emery,  Labour 
and    Health,    299 

Henry,  Alice,  Women  and  the 
Labour     Movement,     299 

Here,  There  and  Everyivhere,  by 
Lord    Frederic    Hamilton,    131 

Herford,  Oliver,  Neither  Here 
Nor   There,   95 

Hergesheimer,  Joseph,  Apprecia- 
tion of  Hugh  Walpole,  15,  29, 
30,   31 

Herm,  home  of  Compton.  Mac- 
kenzie,   267 

Herman  Melville:  Mariner  and 
Mystic,  by  Raymond  W. 
Weaver,  325;  review  by  Carl 
Van    Vechten,    325-328 

Hermit  of  Far  End,  The,  by 
Margaret    Pedler,   256 

Heroes  of  the  Ruins,  by  Francis 
Rolt- Wheeler,    160 

Heterogeneous  Magis  of  Maugh- 
am, The,  270 

Hichins,  Robert,  The  Garden  of 
Allah,  249;  December  Love,  249 

History  of  Sea  Power,  A,  by  Wil- 
liam O.  Stevens  and  Allan  West- 
cott,     331;     Admiral     Caspar    F. 


Goodrich,  review  of,  in  The 
Weekly  Review,  331-333;  Ex- 
tracts  from,   332,   333 

Holliday,  Robert  Cortes,  52;  busi- 
ness connections,  221;  Broome 
Street  Straws,  52;  editor  of  The 
Bookman.  369;  Memoirs  in 
Joyce  Kilmer,  Poems,  Essays 
and  Letters,  53;  Men  and  Books 
and  Cities,  52;  Peeps  at  Peo- 
ple, 52;  praise  by  James  Hun- 
ecker,  52;  Study  of  Booth  Tark- 
ington,  53;  Turns  About  Town, 
52;  Walking  Stick  Papers,  51; 
Writing  as  a  Business;  A  Prac- 
tical  Guide   for  Authors,   220 

Houghton,  Mrs.  Hadwin,  See 
Wells,    Carolyn 

House  of  Dreams  Come  True,  The, 
by   Margaret  Pedler,  256 

House  of  Five  Swords,  The,  by 
Tristram   Tupper,   247,   248 

"Houses"  from  Main  Street  and 
other  Poems,  by  Joyce  Kilmer, 
349,    350 

How  to  Live  on  Twenty-four 
Hours  a  Day,  by  Arnold  Ben- 
nett, 303 

How  to  Play  the  Piano,  by  Mark 
Hambourg,    219,    220 

Howard,    Sidney,    Swords,    364 

Hughes,  Rupert,  article  on  Rob- 
ert W.  Chambers,  320;  on  Rob- 
ert   W.    Chambers,    311 

Hugh  Walpole  Anthology,  A,  by 
Hugh  Walpole,  27,  32;  divisions 
of,  27;  Country  Places,  2y;  Lon- 
don, 2y;  Men  and  Women,  27; 
Russia,  27-,  Some  Children,  27; 
Some   Incidents,   27 

Hunting  Hidden  Treasure  in  the 
Andes,  by  Francis  Rolt-Wheel- 
er,    159 

Huxley,  Aldous,  34,  35,  30: 
Beauty,  36;  Comment  by  Milchael 
Sadlier,  34;  Crome  Yellow,  34; 
Disciple  of  Laforgue,  35; 
L'Apres-Midi-d'un  Faune,  trans- 
lation by,  35 ;  Limbo,  34,  36; 
Mortal  Coils,  34,  35;  "Permii- 
tation  among  the  Nightingales," 
play  by,  35;  poet  and  writer  of 
prose,  35;  Quotations  from  Mor- 
tal Coils,  35;  Splendour,  by 
Numbers,  36;  the  sensualist,  36; 
Translator  of  Laforgue,  35; 
translation  of   The   Walk,   35 

I  Have  Only  Myself  to  Blame, 
by  Princess  Bibesco,  47;  ex- 
tract from,  47,  48,  49 


[377] 


INDEX 


Ice-hreakcrs    and    the    Ice-Breaker 

Herself,    by    Edna   Geister,    219 
Illumination   and   Its   Development 

in   the   Present   Day,   by    Sidney 

Farnsworth,    223 
Imprudence,  by  F.  E.  Mills  Young, 

263 
In  the  Days  Before  Columbus,  by 

Francis   Rolt-Wheeler,    160 
In     the     Quarter,     by     Robert    W. 

Chambers,   3>7.    3i8 
lote,  by  Robert  W.  Chambers,  318. 

319 
Irish   Free   State,    The,    by   Albert 

C.  White,   191;   Book  Value,  192 
Isn't   That  Just   Like   a    Man:    Oh, 

Well,    You    Know    How   Women 

Are!  89 
It  Is  to  Laugh,   by   Edna  Geister, 

219 

Jacks,  L.  P.,  editor  of  Hibbert 
Journal,  195;  The  Legends  of 
Smokeover,    194 

Jameson,  Mrs.  Falconer,  see  /. 
E.  Buckrose 

Jellicoe,  Viscount,  of  Scapa,  The 
Crisis  of  tli^  Naval  War,  329; 
The   Grand   Fleet,   329 

Jimmy  Dale  and  the  Phantom 
Clue,   by    Frank   L.    Packard,    69 

Joining  in  Public  Discussion,  by 
Alfred  Dwight  Sheffield,  297; 
sections   of,  299 

Judge,  The,  by  Rebecca  West,  78; 
dedication  and  review,  84,  85, 
86;  extract  from,  81,  82;  ma- 
terial   employed,    82,    83 

Judgment  of  Charis,  The,  by  Mrs. 
Baillie   Reynolds,    76 

Just  Steward,  The,  by  Richard 
Dehan  (Clotilde  Graves),  201; 
samples  from,  201-203,  205,  206, 
207,  208,  210 

Jungle  Tales.  Adventures  in  In- 
dia, by  Howard  Anderson  Mus- 
ser,    156 

K,  by  Mary  Roberts  Rinehart, 
107,  108,  116 

Kemp,   E.   G.,  Chinese  Mettle,    190 

Kerr,  Sophie,  244;  Autobiography, 
244-246;  editor  Woman's  Home 
Companion,  245;  One  Thing  is 
Certain,  246;  Painted  Meadows, 
246;  quotations  from  letter  by, 
246,   247 

Kilmer,  Joyce,  Main  Street  and 
Other  Poems,  349;  Poems,  Es- 
says  and    Letters,    53;    Memoirs, 


by    Robert    Cortes    Holliday,    53; 

Trees    and    Other   Poems,    349 
Kilmer,   Mrs.,   Candles   That  Burn, 

350;  Vigils,  350 
Kingfisher,    The,    by    Phyllis    Bot- 

tome,  260 
King    in    Yellow,    The,    by    Robert 

W.    Chambers,    317,    318 
Knight    Among   Ladies,    A,    by    J. 

E.    Buckrose,  251 
Knight,   Captain,   C.   W.    R.,    Wild 

Life  in  the  Tree  Tops,  214 
Kummer,     Frederic     Arnold,     The 

Earth's    Story,     15s;     The    First 

Days  of  Man,   155,    156 

Labour  and  Health,  by  Dr.  Emery 
Hayhurst,   299 

Lad:  A  Dog,  by  Albert  Payson 
Terhune,    214 

Lady  Frederick,  by  W.  Somerset 
Maugham,   289,   291 

Lady  Lilith,  by  Stephen  McKenna, 
342,  343,  346;  Comments  by  au- 
thor,  342.   343,   346 

Lamp  of  Fate,  The,  by  Margaret 
Pedler,    256 

Land  of  Footprints,  The,  by  Stew- 
art Edward  White,   55,  67 

Lanier,  Henry  Wysham,  A  Cen- 
tury of  Banking  in  New  York: 
1822-1922,    193 

Lardner,  Ring  W.,  appreciation 
of  Charles  E.  Van  Loan,  212; 
Sport,  212 

Laughter,  Ltd.,  by  Nina  Wilcox 
Putnam,  90 

Legends  of  Smokeover,  The,  by 
L.   P.  Jacks,   194 

Life  and  Letters,  by  J.  C.  Squire,  46 

Life  of  Sir  William  Vernon  Har- 
court.    The,    118 

Lilian,  by  Arnold  Bennett,  I33. 
137-141,  149;  extract  from,  137- 
141,    149 

Limbo,  by  Aldous  Huxley,  34.  36; 
Death  of  Lully,  36;  Happy  Fam- 
ilies,  36 

Literary  Spotlight,  The;  The 
Bookman,    371 

Little  Essays  of  Love  and  Virtue, 
by   Havelock    Ellis,    302 

Little  Jumping  Joan,  by  May  By- 
ron,  153 

Lisa  of  Lambeth,  by  W.  Somer- 
set   Maugham,    286,    287,    291 

Lloyd  George,  critical  sketch,  by 
E.  T.   Raymond,    121 

Lodge,   Sir   Oliver,    115,   301 

London  Mercury,  edited  by  J.  C. 
Squire 


[378] 


INDEX 


London  Spy,  The,  by  Thomas 
Burke,    189 

Long  Live  the  King,  by  Mary 
Roberts   Rinehart,    115,    116 

Loi'e  Match,  The,  by  Arnold  Ben- 
nett,   361,    364;    Extracts    from, 

361-363 

Lowndes,  Mrs.  Belloc.  apprecia- 
tion of  Hugh  Walpole,  23,  24; 
What   Timmy   Did,    77 

Lucas,  E.  \'.,  Giving  and  Receiv- 
ing, 307;  Roving  East  and  Rov- 
ing  West,   307 

Mackenzie,  Compton,  Carnival, 
265;  Flasher's  Mead,  265;  Poor 
Relations,  265 ;  Rich  Relatives, 
265;  Sinister  Street,  265;  The 
Altar  Steps,  265,  266,  269;  The 
Parson's  Progress,  266;  visit  by 
Simon  Pure.   266-269 

MacQuarrie,  Hector,  on  W.  Som- 
erset Maugham,  277,  284,  290; 
Tahiti   Days,    270 

Madame  de  Sta'el ;  Her  Trials  and 
Triumphs,  by  Andrew  C.  P. 
Haggard,    124-129 

Main  Street  and  Other  Poems,  by 
Joyce  Kilmer,  349 

Man  from  the  North,  A,  by  Ar- 
nold Bennett,    146.    149 

Man  in  Loiver  Ten,  The,  by  Mary 
Roberts    Rinehart,    114,    116 

Man  in  Ratcatcher,  The,  by  Cyril 
McNeile,    70 

Manners,  J.  Hartley,  The  Harp  of 
Life,  363 

Maradick  at  Forty,  by  Hugh  Wal- 
pole, 26,  31 

Margutti,  Baron  von,  The  Em- 
peror Francis  Joseph  and  His 
Times,    130 

Marooned  in  Moscow,  by  Mar- 
guerite   E.    Harrison,    192 

Married  Life,  by  Arnold  Bennett, 
303 

Maugham  W.  Somerset,  article  by 
Hector  MacQuarrie,  292;  books 
by,  291,  292;  Caroline,  289,  292; 
East  ot  Suez,  284,  292,  360; 
education  of,  286;  father  of, 
286;  wife  of,  286;  Lady  Fred- 
erick, 289,  291;  Liza  of  Lam- 
beth, 286,  287,  291;  Mrs.  Crad- 
dock,  287,  288,  291;  Mrs.  Dot, 
289,  291;  Of  Human  Bondage, 
270,  273-77,  287,  291;  On  a 
Chinese  Screen,  284-285,  291; 
playright,  288;  sources  on,  292; 
The  Circle.  289,  292;  The  hetero- 
geneous    magic     of,     270;     The 


Moon    and   Sixpence,    270,    277, 

278,  279,  284,  287,  291 
McCormick,     W.     B..     Army     and 

Navy    Journal,    Editor    of,    321; 

Comment    on    Josephus    Daniels' 

Our  Navy  at  War,  321,  322,  323 
McFee,     William,     371;     Extracts 

from     preface    to    Spindrift,    by 

Milton   Raison,    352,   353 
McKenna,   Stephen,   334,   337,   338, 

339,  340,  341.  342,  343.  345, 
346;  Between  Tito  Worlds,  341, 
346;  Books  by,  345,  346;  Com- 
ments on  Lady  Lilith,  342,  343; 
education  of,  340;  Lady  Lilith, 
342,  343,  346;  Leopold  Mc- 
Kenna, father  of,  340;  Midas 
and  Son,  341,  346;  Ninety-Six 
Hours'  Leave,  341,  346;  person- 
ality,    343;     Sheila     Intervenes, 

340,  345 ;  Sonia,  339.  340,  341, 
342,    343,    346;    Sonin    Married, 

341,  342,  346;  Sources  on,  346; 
The  Confessions  of  a  Welt- 
Meaning  Woman,  337,  344,  346; 
The    Education     of    Eric    Lane, 

342,  346;    The   Reluctant  Lover, 

340,  345;  The  Secret  Victory, 
342,     346;     The    Sensationalists, 

341,  342;  The  Sixth  Sense,  340, 
345;  Translator  of  Poltinus, 
339;  war  service,  340;  While  I 
Remember,   324,   346 

McNeile,  Cyril,  Bulldog  Drum- 
mond,  70;  The  Black  Gang,  70; 
The  Man  in  Ratcatcher,    70 

Melville,  Herman,  Mardi,  327; 
Moby  Dick,  327,  328;  Omoo, 
326;  Pierre,  327;    Typee,   326 

Memoirs  of  Djemal  Pasha,  The, 
122 

Memoirs  of  the  Memorable,  by 
Sir  James  Denham,  119;  Bea- 
consfield.  Lord,  119;  Beresford, 
Lord  Marcus,  119;  Bishop  of 
London,  119;  Bishop  of  Man- 
chester, 119;  Browning,  Robert, 
119;  Byron,  Lord.  119;  Carroll, 
Lewis,  119;  Dunedin,  Lord,  119; 
Gladstone,  119;  Howard,  Car- 
dinal,   119 

Memories  and  Base  Details,  by 
Lady   Angela   Forbes,    130 

Memories  Discreet  and  Indiscreet, 
by  Lady  Angela   Forbes,    129 

Men  and  Books  and  Cities,  by 
Robert  Cortes  Holliday,   52 

Men  Who  Make  Our  Novels,  The, 
by    George    Gordon,    55,    67,    320 

Merry  Heart,  The,  by  Frank  Swin- 
nerton,   236,   242 


[379] 


INDEX 


Midas  and  Son,  by  Stephen  Mc- 
Kenna,  341.  342.   34f> 

Milestones,  by  Arnold  Bennett 
and    Edward    Knoblauch,    364 

Milne,  A.   A.,  Mr.  Pint,  261 

Miracle  Man,  The,  by  Frank  L. 
Packard,   68 

Miscellanies — Literary  and  His- 
torical,   by    Lord    Rosebcry,    123 

Moffatt,  Dr.  James,  The  Approach 
of  the  New  Testament,  296; 
Nezv  Translation  of  the  New 
Testament,  293;  New  Transla- 
tion of  the  Old  Testament,  296; 
The    Parallel    Testament,   293 

Mollusc,  The,  by  Hubert  Henry 
Davies.    365 

Monaghan,  Elizabeth  A.,  What  to 
Eat  and  How  to  Prepare  It,  218 

Moon  and  Sixpence,  The,  by  W. 
Somerset  Maugham,  270,  278, 
279,   284,  287,   291 

Moon  Out  of  Reach,  The,  by  Mar- 
garet Pedler,   256 

Moons  of  Grandeur,  by  William 
Rose  Benet,  354.  355;  Uon 
Marquis,  review  of,  354;  Quo- 
tation   from,   355 

Moore.  Annie  Carroll,  Roads  to 
Childhood,     152 

More  Indiscretions,  by  Lady  An- 
gela Forbes,    129 

More  Lim  chouse  Nights,  by 
Thomas   Burke,    187 

Morley,  Christopher,  A  Rocking 
Horse,  348;  Translations  from 
the  Chinese,   349 

Mortal    Coils,    by   Aldous   Huxley, 

34,  35 

Mr.  Lloyd  George:  A  Biographi- 
cal and  Critical  Sketch,  by  E. 
T.    Raymond,    120 

Mr.  Pirn,  by   A.   A.   Milne,  261 

Mr.  Prohock,  by  Arnold  Bennett, 
133.  141,  149;  extracts  from, 
141-144,    149 

Mrs.  Craddock,  by  W.  Somerset 
Maugham,  287,  288,  291;  ex- 
tract  from,   288,   291 

Musser,  Howard  Anderson,  Jungle 
Tales,  Adventures   in  India,    156 

My  Creed:  The  Way  to  Happi- 
ness— As  I  Found  It,  Mary  Rob- 
erts Rinehart,   117 

My  Impressions  of  America,  by 
Margot  Asquith,   122 

Myers,  A.  Wallis,  Twenty  Years 
of  Lawn  Tennis,  213 

Neither  Here  Nor  There,  by  Oli- 
ver Herford,  95 


Nine,  264;  Comment  by  Walter 
Prichard  Eaton,  265;  Goncourt 
Prize,  won  by,   264 

New  Revelation,  The,  by  Sir  Ar 
thur    Conan    Doyle,    302 

New  Translation  of  the  New  Tes- 
tament, by  Dr.  James  Moffatt 
293;     extracts     from,     293-296 

New  Translation  of  the  Old  Tcs 
tament,  by  Dr.  James  Moffatt 
296 

Nicolette,  by   Baroness  Orczy,   248 

Night  Operator,  The,  by  Frank  L. 
Packard,    68 

Nights  in  London,  by  Thomas 
Burke,    190 

Ninety-six  Hours'  Leave,  by  Ste- 
phen  McKenna,  341,  346 

Nocturne,  by  Frank  Swinnerton, 
225.  233.  235,  239.  243;  Com- 
ment   by    H.    G.    Wells,    233-235 

Of  Human  Bondage,  by  W.  Som- 
erset Maugham,  270;  review  by 
Theodore  Dreiser,  273-277,  287, 
291 

Old  Morocco  and  the  Forbidden 
Atlas,    by    C.    E.    Andrews,    193 

Old  Wives'  Tales,  The,  by  Ar- 
nold Bennett,  133,  149;  inspira- 
tion of,    147,   149 

On  a  Chinese  Screen,  by  W.  Som- 
erset Maugham,  284,  291;  ex- 
tract  from,   284-285 

On  the  Staircase,  by  Frank  Swin- 
nerton,   226,   243 

On  Tiptoe:  A  Romance  of  the 
Redwoods,  by  Stewart  Edward 
White,  59,  67 

One  Thing  is  Certain,  by  Sophie 
Kerr,    246 

Our  Navy  at  War,  by  Josephus 
Daniels,  321 ;  Comment  on,  by 
W.  B.  McCormick,  321,  322,  323 

Outcasts,  by  Hubert  Henry  Da- 
vies,    365 

Orczy,    Baroness,   Nicolette,    248 

Owl  Taxi,  The,  by  Hulbert  Foot- 
ner,    74,    75 

Packard,  Frank  L.,  Doors  of  the 
Night,  68;  education  of,  68; 
From  Now  On,  68;  Pawned,  68; 
The  Adventures  of  Jimmy  Dale, 
68,  69;  The  Further  Adventures 
of  Jimmie  Dale,  68;  The  Miracle 
.  Man,  68 ;  The  Night  Operator, 
68;  The  Phantom  Clue,  69;  The 
Wire   Devils,    68 

Painted  Meadows,  by  Sophie 
Kerr,   246 


[380] 


INDEX 


Parallel  New  Testament,  The,  by 
Dr.  James  Moffatt,  293 

Parody  Outline  of  History,  A,  by 
Donald  Ogden  Stewart,  93,  94, 
371;    see   The   Bookman,    371 

Parson's  Progress,  The,  by  Comp- 
ton  Mackenzie.  266 

Passenger,    by    Helen    Dircks,    236 

Patricia  Brent,  Spinster,  anony- 
mous, 261 

Pawned,  by   Frank  L.   Packard,   68 

Pedler,  Margaret,  The  Hermit  of 
Far  End,  256;  The  House  of 
Dreams  Come  True,  256;  The 
Lamp  of  Fate,  256;  The  Moon 
Out  of  Reach,  256;  The  Splen- 
did Folly,  256 

Peeps  at  People,  by  Robert  Cortes 
Holliday 

Penny   Plain,   by    O.    Douglas,   249 

Perfect  Behaviour,  by  Donald  Og- 
den Stewart,  93,   94;   motive  of, 

94 

Perin,  Dr.  George  L.,  founder  of 
Franklin  Square  House  for 
Girls,  304;  on  autosuggestion, 
304;  Self  Healing  Simplified, 
304 

"Permutations  Among  the  Night- 
ingales,"   by   Aldous   Huxley,    35 

Peter,    by    E.    F.    Benson,    261 

Pieces  of  Hate,  by  Heywood 
Broun,   41 

Pilgrim  of  a  Smile,  The,  by  Nor- 
man  Davey,    36 

Plays  for  Children,  by  Col.  Ste- 
venson Lyle  Cummins,   157 

Plavs  of  Hubert  Henry  Davies, 
The,  365 

Plotting  in  Pirate  Seas,  by  Fran- 
cis  Rolt-Wheeler,    159 

Poems:  Second  Series,  by  J.  C. 
Squire,  351 

Poets  and  Puritans,  by  T.  R. 
Glover,   305;   preface,  306 

Poindexter,  J.,  Colored,  by  Irvin 
S.  Cobb,  169,  185;  extract  from, 
170-171,  185 

Pomp  of  Power,  The,  anony- 
mous,   119 

Preston,  Keith,  Splinters,  358,  359 

Prosper,    John,    Gold-Killer,    75 

Publishing  as  a  business,   199 

Pure,  Simon,  visit  to  Compton 
Mackenzie,   266-269 

Pushcart  at  the  Curb,  A,  by  John 
Dos  Passos,  347;  General  Head- 
ings of,  347 

Putnam,  Nina  Wilcox,  Laughter, 
Ltd.,  90;  story  in  American 
Magazine,   91,   92;   style  of,   90; 


Tomorrow    We    Diet,    90;    West 
Broadway ,  88,  90 

"Quai  de  la  Tournelle,"  from  a 
Pushcart  at  the  Curb,  by  John 
Dos  Passos,  Quotation  from,  348 

Quest  of  the  Western  World,  The, 
by   Francis  Rolt-Wheeler,    160 

Rackham,  Arthur,  artist,    165 

Raison,  Milton,  Spindrift,  352,  353 

Raymond,  Ernest,  Tell  England, 
250 

Raymond,  E.  T.,  Mr.  Lloyd 
George:  A  Biographical  and 
Critical  Sketch,  120;  Uncensored 
Celebrities,    120 

Recollections  and  Reflections,  by 
A  Woman  of  No  Importance, 
129 

Reeve,  Mrs.  Winnifred,  see  Onoto 
Watanna,   254 

Responsibility,  by  James  E.  Agate, 
49 

Return  of  Alfred,  The,  anonymous, 
261 

Reynolds,  Mrs.  Baillie,  The  Judg' 
ment  of  Ch-aris,  76 

Riddell,  Lord,  Some  Things  That 
Matter,  303 

Rinehart,  Mrs.  Mary  R.,  89;  books 
by,  116;  K.,  107,  108,  116;  Long 
Live  the  King,  115,  116;  meth- 
ods of  work,  1 11;  My  Creed: 
The  Way  to  Happiness,  117; 
My  Public,  117;  parents  of,  108; 
quotation  from,  102-103;  Sources 
on,  117;  The  Amazing  Adven- 
tures of  Letitia  Carberry,  108, 
115,  116;  The  Amazing  Inter- 
lude, 105,  IIS,  116;  The  Bat,  a 
collaboration  with  Avery  Hop- 
wood,  114;  The  Breaking  Point, 
105.  117;  The  Circular  Stair- 
case, no,  114,  116;  The  Man 
in  Lower  Ten,  114,  116;  Tish, 
108,    IIS,    116;    vitality    of,    102 

Roads  to  Childhood,  by  Annie 
Carroll   Moore,    152 

Robin  Hood's  Barn,  by  Margaret 
Emerson   Bailey,    194 

Rocking  Horse,  The,  by  Christo- 
pher Morley,  348;  Quotation 
from,   348 

Rolt  -  Wheeler,  Francis,  "Boy 
Journalist  Series,"  iS9,  161;  He- 
roes of  the  Ruins,  160;  Hunt- 
ing Hidden  Treasures  in  the 
Andes,  159;  In  the  Days  Be- 
fore Columbus,  160;  Plottifig  in 
Pirate    Seas,    159;    The    Coming 


[381] 


INDEX 


of  the  Peoples.  i6i;  The  Quest 
of  the  Western  World,  160; 
wanderings  of,    158 

Rosebery,  Lord,  Miscellanies — Lit- 
erary   and    Historical,    123 

Rosinante  to  the  Road  Again,  by 
John   Dos   Passos,   38,   347 

Roving  East  and  Roving  West,  by 
E.   V.   Lucas, 


Sadlier,  Michael,  comment  on 
Huxley,  34 

Saxton,  Eugene  F.,  67;  account  of 
Stewart  Edward  White,  61,  62, 
63.    64,   65 

Secret  of  the  Sahara:  Kufara,  by 
Rosita  Forbes,   192,   193 

Secret  Victory,  The.  See  The 
Sensationalists,  by  Stephen  Mc- 
Kenna,  342,  346 

Self  Healing  Simplified,  by  Dr. 
George  L.  Perin,  304 

Sensationalists,  The,  by  Stephen 
McKenna,  341;  Lady  Lilith,  342; 
The  Education  of  Eric  Lane, 
342;   The  Secret  Victory,  342 

September,  by  Frank  Swinnerton, 
225,    226,    243 

"Seymour,  Hugh,"  of  The  Golden 
Scarecro'tV,    16,    21 

Sheffield,  Alfred  Dwight,  Joining 
in  Public  Discussion,   297 

Sheridan,  C.  M.,  The  Stag  Cook 
Book,  217 

Shops  and  Houses,  by  Frank  Swin- 
nerton,  226,   243 

Sixth  Sense,  The,  by  Stephen  Mc- 
Kenna,  340,    345 

"Social  Amenities"  in  "Soles  Oc- 
cidere  et   Redire   Possunt,"   36 

Social  Forces  in  Literature,  by  Dr. 
H.   W.   L.  Dana,   300 

Some  Things  that  Matter,  by  Lord 
Riddell,    303 

Somerset  Maugham  in  Tahiti,  ar- 
ticle, by  Hector  MacQuarrie, 
292 

"Song  for  a  Little  House,"  from 
The  Rocking  Horse  by  Christo- 
pher  Morley,   348 

Sonia,  by  Stephen  McKenna,  251, 
339,    340,    341,    342,    343.    346 

Sonia  Married,  by  Stephen  Mc- 
Kenna,  34 1>    342.  346 

Speare,  Dorothy,  264;  Dancers  in 
the   Dark,    255,    256 

Spellbinders,  by  Margaret  Culkin 
Banning,    252 

Spindrift,  by  Milton  Raison,  352; 
extracts    from    preface    by    Wil- 


liam McFee,  353;  quotation 
from,    354 

Splendid  Folly,  The,  by  Margaret 
Pedler,  256 

Splendour  by  Numbers,  Aldous 
Huxley,  36 

Splinters,  by  Keith  Preston,  358; 
quotation  from,  339 

Squire.  J.  C.  Books  in  General, 
Third  Series,  44;  collected  paro- 
dies, 98;  editor  of  the  London 
Mercury,  44;  Life  and  Letters, 
46;  on  Anatole  France,  Jane 
Austen,  Keats,  Pope,  Rabelais, 
Walt  Whitman,  46;  pen  name 
(Solomon  Eagle),  46;  Poems: 
Second  Series,  351;  The  Birds 
and  Other  Poems,  351 

Stag  Cook  Book,  The,  by  C.  M. 
Sheridan,  217 

Stevens,  VV'illiam  O.,  see  Allan 
Westcott,  A  History  of  Sea 
Poiver,   331 

Stevenson,  Candace  T.,  review  of 
Olive  Roberts  Barton,  162 

Stevenson,  Robert  Louis,  descrip- 
tion of  Edinburgh,  86;  in  Mis- 
cellanies, by  Lord  Rosebery, 
123;    Swinnerton,  on,   242 

Stewart,  Donald  Ogden,  A  Parody 
Outline  of  History,  93,  94,  371; 
Perfect  Behaviour,   93,  94 

Stickfuls,  by  Irvin  S.  Cobb,  169, 
185 

Struggle  for  Power  in  Europe 
(J917-21),  by  Leslie  Haden  Guest, 
323 

Sunny-San,     by    Onoto    Watanna, 

^  'S3 

Sutherland,  Jean,  Beauty  for 
Ashes,   262 

Swinnerton,  Frank,  Analyst  of 
Lovers.  225;  Arnold  Bennett's 
Comments.  225;  Coquette,  226, 
243;  criticism  of  R.  L,  Steven- 
son, 242;  list  of  books,  242, 
243;  literary  critic,  241;  Noc- 
turne. 225,  233,  235,  239,  243; 
On  the  Staircase,  226,  243; 
Personal  Sketches  by  Arnold 
Bennett,  Grant  Overton,  H.  G. 
Wells,  243;  publisher,  240;  5"^^- 
tember,  225,  226,  243;  Shops 
and  Houses,  226,  243;  Sources 
on,  243;  The  Casement,  236, 
242;  The  Chaste  Wife,  226,  243; 
The  Happy  Family,  226,  238, 
242;  The  Merry  Heart,  236, 
242;  The  Three  Lovers,  226, 
227,  233,  243;  The  Young  Idea, 
238 


[382] 


INDEX 


Swords,  by  Sidney  Hozvard,  364; 
Kenneth  Macgowan's  criticism, 
364,    36s 

Taggart,  Marion  Ames,  164;  At 
Greenacres,  164;  Poppy's  Pluck, 
164;  The  Bottle  Imp,  164;  The 
Queer  Little  Man,    164 

Tahiti  Days,  by  Hector  McQuar- 
rie,  270 

Tales  Told  by  the  Gander,  by 
Maude   Radford  Warren,    153 

Talkers,  The,  by  Robert  W.  Cham- 
bers,   317,    320 

Tarkington,  Booth,  box  score,  183, 
184;  study  of,  by  Robert  Cortes 
Holliday,    53 

Tell  England,  by  Ernest  Ray- 
mond, 250;  Prologue,  by  Padre 
Monty,   250,    251 

Terhune,  Albert  Payson,  Black 
Censor's  Clan,  71;  Black  Gold, 
71;  Further  Adventures  of  Lad, 
215;  home  of,  214;  Lad:  A  Dog, 

214 

That  Which  Hath  Wings,  by  Rich- 
ard Dehan  (Clotilde  Graves), 
200,    210 

The-v  Have  Only  Themselves  to 
B'lame,   118 

Thirty-nine  Steps,  The,  by  John 
Buchan,  249 

This  Marrying,  by  Margaret  Cul- 
kin  Banning,  253 

Three  Crowns,  The,  by  Winnifred 
Wells,  190 

Three  Lovers,  The,  by  Frank 
Swinnerton,  226,  227,  233,  243; 
Extracts   from,   229,   243 

Three  Men  and  a  Maid,  by  P.  G. 
Wodehouse,  99;  extract  from, 
99-101 

Three  Soldiers,  by  John  Dos  Passes 

Tilden,  William  T.,  The  Art  of 
Lawn  Tennis,  213;  tennis  cham- 
pion,  213 

Timothy  Tubby's  Journal,  extracts 
from,  95,  96,  97,  98 

Tish,  by  Mary  Roberts  Rinehart, 
108,    115,    116 

Tc^morrow  We  Diet,  by  Nina  Wil- 
cox Putnam,  90 

"Touch  of  Tears,  The,"  from 
Vigils,   by   Mrs.   Kilmer,    350-351 

Trade  Union  Policy,  by  Dr.  Leo 
Wolman,   299 

Translations  from  the  Chinese,  by 
Christopher  Morley,  348;  Quo- 
tation  from,   349 

Trees  and  Other  Poems,  by  Joyce 
Kilmer,  349 


Truth  About  an  Author,  The,  by 
Arnold  Bennett,    144,   150 

Turns  About  Town,  by  Robert 
Cortes   Holliday.    52 

Twenty  Years  of  Lawn  Tennis,  by 
A.   Wallis    Myers,    213 

Vanished  Pomps  of  Yesterday, 
The,  by  Lord  Frederic  Hamil- 
ton,   131 

Vanishing  of  Betty  Varian,  The, 
by   Carolyn   Wells,   76,    77 

Van  Loan,  Charles  E.,  Buck  Par- 
vin:  Stories  of  the  Motion  Pic- 
ture Game,  212;  Fore!  Golf 
Stories,  212;  Old  Man  Curry: 
Racetrack  Stories,  212;  Score  by 
Innings:  Baseball  Stories,  212; 
Taking  the  Count:  Prise  Ring 
Stories,    212 

Van  Rensselaer,  Alexander,  220; 
bibliographies  by,    223 

Van  Vechten,  Carl,  New  York 
Evening  Post,  review  of  Her- 
man Melville:  Mariner  and  Mys- 
tic,   325-328 

Vardon,  Harry,  The  Gist  of  Golf, 
213 

Vigils,  by  Mrs.  Kilmer,  350;  Quo- 
tations   from,    350,    351 

"Vision,"  from  Spindrift,  by  Mil- 
ton Raison,  354 

Vital  Message,  The,  by  Sir  Ar- 
thur  Conan   Doyle,   302 

Voice  in  the  Wilderness,  The,  by 
Richard  Blakex,  263 

Walking  Stick  Papers,  by  Robert 
Cortes  Holliday,   selection   from, 

5J.  52 
Walpole,  Hugh,  15,  27,  28,  29.  31, 
32;  A  Hugh  Walpole  Anthology, 
32;  American  following  of,  21; 
appearance,  22;  article  on,  by 
Mrs.  Belloc  Loundes,  23;  birth- 
place, 15;  Books  of,  31;  com- 
ments on  The  Bookman,  366;  con- 
nection with  London  Standard, 
26;  appreciation  by  Joseph 
Hergesheimer,  15,  29,  30,  31; 
courage  of,  25;  description  by 
Arnold  Bennett,  22;  education 
of,  22;  educational  experiences 
of,  22;  English  Literature  Dur- 
ing the  Last  Half  Century,  32; 
father  of,  15;  Fortitude,  21; 
goes  to  England,  16;  Hugh  Wal- 
pole, an  appreciation,  31;  Hugh 
Walpole,  Master  Novelist,  32; 
life   in   New   York,    16;   London 


[383] 


INDEX 


scenes  pictured  by,  in  Anthology, 
28;  Maradick  at  Forty,  26;  Note 
by  Joseph  Conrad,  28;  Novels, 
list  of,  31;  optimist,  23;  Ro- 
mances, list  of,  31;  Service  in 
Great  War,  16;  Selections  for 
Anthology,  27;  Short  Stories, 
list  of,  31;  Sources  on,  31;  su- 
perstitions, 24;  reader,  24;  Tait 
Black  Prize  for  best  novel  of 
year,  30;  won  by,  30;  The  Cap- 
tives, 24;  The  Cathedral,  19; 
The  Dark  Forest,  16;  The  Duch- 
ess of  VVrcxe,  19;  The  Gods  and 
Mr.  Fcrrin,  22;  The  Green  Mir- 
ror, 19;  The  Wooden  Horse, 
25;    Visits  to  America,   16 

Wanderings  of  a  Spiritualist,  The, 
by  Sir  Arthur  Conan  Doyle,  302 

Warren,  Maude  Radford,  Tales 
Told  by  the  Gander,  153 

Watanna,  Onoto  (Mrs.  Winnifred 
Reeve),  254;  A  Japanese  Night- 
ingale, 254;   Sunny-San,  253 

Warbasse,  Dr.  James  B.,  Coopera- 
tive Movement,    300 

Weaver,  Raymond  M.,  Herman 
Melville:  Mariner  and  Mystic, 
325.  326,  327,  328 

Wells,  Carolyn  (Mrs.  Hadwin 
Houghton),  77;  Book  of  Hu- 
morous Verse,  99;  The  Room 
uiith  the  Tassels,  76;  The  Van- 
ishing of  Betty  Varian,  76,  77 

Wells,  H.  G.,  94;  Comments  on 
Frank  Swinnerton's  Nocturne, 
233,  234,  23s;  Soviet  Russia,  192 

Westcott,  Peter,  in  Fortitude,  by 
Hugh    Walpole,   22 

West  Broadway,  by  Nina  Wil- 
cox  Putnam,   88.   90 

Westerners,  The,  by  Stewart  Ed- 
ward  White,    55,    63,    66 

West,  Rebecca,  books  by,  86;  ar- 
ticle by  Amy  Wellington,  83; 
artist,  78;  biography  of,  83;  The 
Judge,  78;  The  Return  of  the 
Soldier,  86 

Westcott,  Allan,  and  William  O. 
Stevens,  A  History  of  Sea  Pow- 
er, 331 

What  Timmy  Did,  by  Mrs.  Belloc 
Lowndes,   77 

What  to  Eat  and  How  to  Prepare 
It,  by  Elizabeth  A.  Monaghan, 
218 

While  I  Remember,  by  Stephen 
McKenna,  324,  346 

Whispering  Windows,  see  More 
Limehouse  Nights,  by  Thomas 
Burke,    187,    188 


White,  Albert  C,  The  Irish  Free 
State,    191 

White,  Stewart  Edward,  55,  56, 
59,  60,  61,  66;  account  of  by 
Eugene  F.  Saxton,  6i,  62,  63, 
64,  65;  Appendix,  to  Gold,  by 
Eugene  F.  Saxton,  67;  The 
Birds  of  Mackinac  Island,  55, 
63;  boat  and  books,  56,  59; 
books  of,  66;  by  John  Palmer 
Gavit,  67;  education  of,  61; 
Gold,  61,  67;  in  France,  56; 
military  service,  61;  On  Tip- 
toe: A  Romance  of  the  Red- 
woods, 59,  67;  parents,  60;  Sim- 
bo,  55,  67;  sources  on,  67;  The 
Claim  Jumpers,  55,  63,  66;  The 
Land  of  Footprints,  55,  67;  The 
Westerners,   55,   63,  66 

Wild  Life  in  the  Tree  Tops,  by 
Captain  C.  W.  R.  Knight,  214; 
Photographs,    214 

Wingfield-Stratford,  Esme,  Facing 
Reality,    300 

Wire  Devils,  The,  by  Frank  L. 
Packard,   68 

With  the  Band,  poem,  by  Robert 
W.    Chambers,   317 

Wodehouse,  Pelham  Grenville,  70; 
lyrical  writer,  99;  Three  Men 
and    a    Maid,    99 

Wolf,  Robert,  297;  The  Creative 
Spirit  in  Industry,   300 

Wolman,  Dr.  Leo,  Trade  Union 
Policy,   299 

Woman  of  No  Importance,  A, 
Recollections  and  Reflections, 
129 

Women  and  the  Labour  Movement, 
by  Alice  Henry,   299 

Women  Who  Make  Our  Novels, 
The,  by  Grant  Overton,  117; 
chapter  on  Mary  Roberts  Rine- 
hart,    109,     117 

Wonder  Book,  A,  by  Nathaniel 
Hawtliorne,    165 

Wooden  Horse,  The,  by  Hugh 
Walpole,  25,  26,  31;  sale  of, 
-5 

Workers'    Bookshelf   Series,   297 

Workers'  Education  Bureau  of 
America,    editorial    board,    297 

Writing  as  a  Business:  A  Prac- 
tical Guide  for  Authors,  by  Rob- 
ert Cortes  Holliday,  220;  Ex- 
tracts  from,  222,   223 

Wylie,    Elinor,    357 

Young,  F.  E.  Mills,  263;  Almonds 
of  Life,  263;  Imprudence,  263 
The    Stronger    Influence,    263 


[384] 


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